CHAOS
by kamelion
Summary: With the opening of the Hellgate, a new power is unleashed. Storms tear across the land. The Winchester brothers are once again on the warpath, fighting the unknown as Sam's inner fury increases. Will it be his downfall? NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

This is a re-post of a story that was here well over a year ago. It was removed and successfully zined by Agent With Style, and now is back on the web for public consumption. This is a season three AU that has exploded into something I wasn't ready for. The initial response was quite overwhelming, and I'm hoping this re-post will bring the same, as well as new readers into the fold. There is a sequel to this story, so keep your eyes peeled. Author alerts are wonderful things!

I'm trying to catch the few typos that remain. If you spot any, please forgive me. And as always, please feel free to review. Otherwise I don't know if these stories "work". Enjoy the ride, and THANK YOU!

-Kam : )

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_Of course Dean was scared. He was no dummy. He'd heard all the fire and brimstone lore, all the stories of burning alive and being forced to live your worst nightmares over and over, of the eternal torment and excruciating pain coursing through cells that should be dead, but instead stings with the agony of being alive. He knew what his deal had cost him, every time he saw the anger in his brother's eyes. Sam clearly preferred his own death over the definite knowledge of Dean's fate._

_This is why Sam wasn't flinching from the gun that Dean aimed at him, and why Dean was crying._

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Dean Winchester knew something was different, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Maybe it was the moist, supercharged air that settled over the plains like a stifling blanket, disquieting enough to make nuns moody. Then again, maybe it was the odd swagger Sam used as he walked up to the two men that had insulted Dean, or hell, maybe it was the fact that Sam had bothered to approach the men at all. In the dim lights and noise of the smoky bar, it was easy to mistaken a movement, a gesture, or a comment for anything other than what is was supposed to be. And Sam had been on edge.

Hell, they'd both been on edge. Maybe the weather had little to do with it, after all.

Going to the bar was supposed to take the edge off. Grab a few beers, play pool and swindle a few losers, eye a few chicks, and get the hell back out before anyone had a chance to look twice or take names. Sam was about to screw with that. In no way, shape or form did the plan include his brother taking out a load of lumberjack wannabes. They were large, burly men in flannel shirts with faded trucker's hats covering their bald spots. And at the moment, they were ripe targets for the six-foot-four wall of rage.

Dean set his bottle on the small side table with a thump, widening his eyes against the drunken tilt of the room, making sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth wood of his cue stick, trying to decide if he should intervene. It would piss Sam off, but Dean was in no condition to carry his broken ass back to the car. That and he didn't exactly want to see his brother get the snot beat out of him. Even if he was annoyed with him, and felt Sam deserved to have his cage rattled.

Well, almost.

Dean was annoyed with Sam because he wouldn't let Dean out of his sight. It had been going on for three solid weeks now; three weeks since he made that damn deal, three weeks since life as he knew it flipped a one-eighty and gave him a one finger salute at the same time. So he tried to fix it, because that's what he did. He fixed things. He fixed cars, he fixed people's haunted houses, he fixed dead things that shouldn't be roaming around the living zone. He fixed Sam. That left only one, no, two more things to fix. One being the fucking mess that opening the gates of hell stirred up, and didn't he feel responsible for that one? Two, being his own mess, something he didn't know how to fix, or even if it _could_ be fixed. He wished Sam would back the hell away from it before he found himself in a world of hurt. But Sam wouldn't let it go, no more than he was going to back away from the flanneled lumberjacks that were now looking at him like he had encroached on their masculine territory and declared it National Arbor Day.

They had been watching Sam and Dean all evening, and the rude comments could just be heard over the clinks of thick glasses, loud music and drunken laughter. Sam had insisted they ignore it while staring pointedly at Dean's clenched jaw. And Dean had complied, because dammit, he wanted down time with his brother. He wanted to enjoy himself. So he ignored the jibes and concentrated on the pool game, playing with one injured hand and still beating the crap out of Sam.

Hell, Dean even apologized when one of the large men knocked into him on the way to the head, leering and muttering something into his ear that sounded suspiciously like "faggot". Okay, so the apology was forgotten at that point. Dean had gone as far as, "Yeah, you wish your face was as pretty as mine, you acne pit-assed son of a. . ." before Sam yanked him to the other side of the table to take his shot. And Dean relented, reluctantly.

But he felt the heat. Rage burned in Sam's eyes as he watched the yellow one ball bank and curl into a side pocket, and it was unsettling. When the guy returned from the head and knocked hard into Dean's bandaged hand, that was it. Sam had flung down his cue and walked over to the lumberjacks. Dean was in mid-swig, and just about did a spit-take when he realized what Sam was doing.

Now Sam was staring them down. Dean had a vague feeling that these particular lumberjacks didn't wear high heels, suspenders or a bra at any point in their very large, barrel-chested lives. The Pythons would be disappointed.

Sam didn't seem to care if they were elephants. Of course he had a height advantage, his near six-foot-five frame towering over the stoutest of them. And they were stout, make no mistake. Sam wasn't exactly a bean pole himself. He was broad of shoulder and almost had more muscle than Dean. It was a troublesome fact that Dean tried not to dwell on, but when it came down to it, his little brother was anything but little these days. Still, it was one against six, and while he was certain Sam could narrow the odds on his own, something in his own drunken gut told him that if he didn't intervene, Stanford educated brains would be hiding the cigarette butts that spotted the floor. One thing Sam couldn't do was hold his drink, and that was a definite disadvantage against the men who were scraping their chairs back and standing up, facing Sam in a room that had suddenly gone just a shade more quiet than before.

Crap.

Dean set his pool cue aside, cursing his six beers, guzzled more quickly than he had a right to. He'd lost count of Sam's consumption, his concentration being locked on the pool table at the time. The slight swagger and tilt to the right told Dean that this fight was going to be short and end with a hospital trip if he didn't get the Leaning Tower of Piza out of there.

But it was too late. The first punch was thrown.

Fortunately it wasn't Sam who threw it, so that would go down well with the cops. Heh. Of course the way Sam charged at the man, barreling him over his chair and onto the floor screwed any defense they had in their favor.

Dean sprang into action, his adrenaline overriding the dizziness of the motion. No cops. No cops, no cops, last thing they needed was cops, dammit Sam! He wasn't supposed to be the reckless one, what the hell was this?

Dean shoved chairs and people aside, cursing loudly, yelling Sam's name. He easily punched the face of a man who dared block his way. After that, his senses blurred. He caught glimpses of Sam in between angry faces and clenched fists. He threw punch after punch, each one like slamming his knuckles against a brick wall. He felt the pain and crack of punches flung back at him, and the more he got, the more he fought, dammit.

The world suddenly turned upside down as he slammed backwards onto a pool table. Landed right on top of three pool balls, which spat out from beneath him as he tried to remember how to breathe. It took him a moment to realize he was staring at the ceiling before he could raise his head. The large man that towered over him with a promise of making his life hell, was yanked backwards. People yelled into the fervor, laughed at the chaos, cried out in pain. Bottles smashed, tables splintered. He finally felt hands tugging him to his feet, and was shoved back towards the exit. To his surprise, they were Sam's. The large hands gripped his button-down shirt, and in turn he twisted round to grab hold of his brother's wrists. To make sure that Sam got out, of course. Not because he needed help.

They hurried outside as best they could, both hurting, both running lopsidedly, and hell, since when did they run from a fight? Dean fumbled for his keys as Sam bounced on his toes, looking over his shoulder anxiously, his face promising to be a swollen mass of bruises in a few hours time. Dean felt like shit, and somehow managed to pull himself together enough open the car door. He didn't usually lock the doors to his Impala unless the place they were outside a place that looked too seedy. This place probably sprouted demonic weeds. He quickly reached across to unlock the passenger side as the hefty men lumbered out, but Dean had the car cranked and spinning out of the lot almost before Sam closed his car door.

Driving was _not _a good idea. But he had little choice, and _man_ was Sam going to hear about it.

Dean managed to keep the car on the road until he found a slight clearing off to the side. He swerved onto it, skidding in the loose gravel, and turned off the engine. He didn't even have time to turn to face his brother before Sam squeaked opened the passenger side door and staggered out into the night air, leaving the door ajar. Dean clenched his jaw and threw open his own door, slammed it shut, and rounded the back end of the car. He hurried forward and grabbed the back of Sam's jacket, jerking him to a halt. "What the fuck, man?" He swallowed hard and tried to ignore the nausea, and the world spinning around him. Stomach punches and alcohol did _not_ mix.

Sam jerked away and whirled around to face him, adding to the vertigo. "Don't start, Dean."

Dean swallowed again and swore he was not going to reach out to steady himself. No weakness, not while he was pissed and spitting nails. "What the hell was that? Huh?" He punched his palms at Sam's jacket, shoving him back. "You trying to get us killed or something? I though we were going to have a nice relaxed evening, just drinking and playing pool and doing all that brotherly schmoop and you had to go screw it up!"

"Oh, so says Mr. Machismo!" Sam was trying to force words from a closed throat.

"So it's like that, huh? I've never started a fight, Sam, especially not when I was drunk!" He checked himself, because that didn't sound right coming from him and he was pretty sure it wasn't true, but there it was. "Now what the hell?"

"Fuck off, Dean."

"Excuse me?" He grabbed at his brother again, and was slammed into the side of the Impala. Air escapes his lungs in a pained whoosh. Son of a _bitch_, it hurt. Dean seized Sam's hand with his good one, trying to pry away the grip while trying not to fall on his face. All he could manage was to hold onto him as Sam's temper slowly faded, as he stared into Dean's eyes with more agony than should ever be put into a man's being.

Dean loosened his grip, then tried again to pry his fingers away, but with less effort. Release and pry, until he was almost massaging his brother's hands, soothing the tension away from him, seeing Sam's face fall until he let Dean go and turned away, his shoulders slumped. One hand rose to his face, Dean didn't know if it was to wipe away tears or rub away the headache that was sure to come. He didn't move, allowing Sam to regain a measure of control. It wasn't until Sam's arm dropped to his side that Dean spoke. "Dude. You get pissed and wanna beat up something, you beat me up, okay? It ain't worth all this."

There was a forced laugh, and Sam turned, wavering slightly. "Not worth all this? Beat you up? Are you fucking serious?"

"I'm just saying it's probably safer in the long run, 'cause I'm not as likely to turn your face into Jello as those guys. I mean I can do it, sure, but I probably won't."

"Because you're such a good guy."

"That's right."

Sam snorted and turned away. "You may be a good guy and all, Dean," he said to the night air, "but right now I swear I can't stand to look at you." His voice choked.

Dean just leaned against the car, saying nothing. It was sinking in. After three long weeks, the reality of their situation was sinking in, and the helplessness and panic Sam was feeling was tangible. Dean knew it, and he knew nearly getting himself killed on their last hunt had upped the tension level, oh, about eight million degrees or so.

They had been staking out a demon in Ohio. Found it in an abandoned house. The damn thing had him cornered, his weapon having been pulled away. He could remember his gun skittering across the floor, how it sounded so pitiful, so helpless. So useless.

To say the demon had been enraged was the understatement of the century. There was nothing playful about this one; no taunting words, no anecdotes, no monologues. It simply wanted to kill, and Dean was the victim, and for a moment as the demon came for him with outstretched hands – Dean hesitated.

He actually paused. He refused to move, and watched death come for him.

Sam was witness to that hesitation, and had been freaking out ever since. But on the inside, of course, because he had spent the past week getting Dean back on his feet again after barely saving him from the attack.

Dean had slept for two days as his body healed. His face still held a scar, cut straight down his cheek, and his right hand and wrist was still bandaged. A cast hadn't been needed, thankfully, though he had spent four days with his arm in a sling. That combined with Sam's hovering was enough to make him want to string up Sam's ass in one. Not that he had any room to say anything. Sam's occasional glare was more than enough to put him in his place. In recompense he endured the pain, and the looks, and Sam not letting him fend for himself until he finally had enough, threw the sling away, wrapped the strained wrist, and insisted they both go out and get drunk.

Then this shit had to happen. Fan-fucking-terrific.

"So you can't stand the sight of me, huh? That's ripe, coming from someone who started a fight for no good reason other than to find someone else to blame for this shit. And so help me, if I broke my wrist for real this time? You're never hearing the end of it." He hadn't even realized it until that moment, but man, his hand hurt like crazy.

The rebuttal and subtle accusation made Sam turn. He hesitated, then huffed slightly and walked to Dean, carefully taking his arm and holding the injured wrist, angling it slowly in the moonlight. "Does it hurt?"

"Of course it freakin' hurts, Sam! What the hell do you think, that was all sunshine and roses back there?" Dean pulled his hand away, thought to be honest he was glad Sam had touched him. Far be it for him to use an injury as a ploy, but dammit, there was something going on here that he just couldn't get a hold of and he didn't like it a bit. He was ready to pull out any trick he could find to get Sam to talk to him.

Sam just winced slightly. "I'm sorry."

"No," Dean muttered, "you're not sorry. You're not sorry in the least."

"How do you know?"

"I have eyes, Sam. Now tell me what's going on or I swear to god I'm going to leave your ass on the side of the road and call that bar and tell _them_ where they can pick you up."

The Impala wavered slightly as Sam leaned hard against it. Dean felt it, almost like his car didn't know his own brother and had tried to back away from his approach. For Dean's part, he shifted and stood shoulder to shoulder with Sam, waiting patiently, not allowing Sam to ease away.

Sam just looked off into the trees, then finally smiled ruefully. "I don't know, man," he said softly, his eyes finding the scuffed ground beneath their feet, "I just feel like. . .I wanted to do something rash. I can't – I don't know what to do, I don't know how to deal with this. I can't deal with this. Now I know how you felt with Dad. I couldn't say anything to make you feel any better, and you can't say anything to make me feel better, so don't even try it." Sam angled his head to look at Dean. "I had no idea. I hate that I understand that feeling now. And I'm – I swear to god, Dean." Frustration had taken over again, and Sam pushed away from the car. Dean almost felt the car sigh in relief.

It was the first time they'd even come close to talking about what happened since that fateful night, and it was happening now only because they were too drunk to prevent it, though Dean had the shaky feeling that he was sobering faster than he cared to. Sure, little comments had popped up here and there. A bad joke, maybe, things like being in a diner and Dean saying, "I'll be in hell before we get served in this place." But no discussion, no emotional outbursts, nothing. Dean had been grateful, until he saw how it was slowly eating Sam up inside.

Now he listened. He had to. He had to save his brother's sanity, especially if it was a topic that was so traumatic Sam was willing to discuss it only when drunk. And that was yet another thing that just wasn't Sam. He was the one to bully Dean into opening up. He didn't believe in blocking off emotions. It didn't usually take alcohol to get him to talk.

Until now.

Sam didn't face him. He kept his eyes on the dark line of trees that bordered the desolate road. "I mean, I know why you did it. I might have done the same thing, hell, I don't know. I hope I never have to find out. But god dammit, Dean, didn't you stop to think? Huh?" Sam started to pace, spearing his brother with heated glances. "Didn't you stop to think maybe I can't live without you any more than you thought you could live without me?"

No, actually the thought hadn't crossed Dean mind. And damn him for bringing that up. "But you did, Sammy. You left all this behind when you went to school. You can do that again. You can start over."

"Don't you dare!" Sam growled. He looked like he was ready to slam Dean against the car again. His expression was dark, darker than Dean has ever seen it, and he understood, really understood, for the first time just how much pain he had inflicted on his brother by saving him. _Son_ _of a bitch_.

"How the hell am I supposed to just drop everything and go back to the way things were, after all this?" Sam pleaded.

"I don't know, Sam. But you've done it before." It was a lame answer, _god_ it was lame! But his head was spinning and he knew there was no convincing defense for his actions.

"No. Not after all this. No way."

"Aw, come on." Dean offered a smile. "Give it a year. You'll forget I ever existed."

Again Sam surprised him by rounding on him, slamming his hands against the car, right above Dean's shoulders. He leaned in. "_I can't do that_, Dean. You know that." His eyes burned angrily, almost painfully. "I can't believe you'd say that to me."

"Sam. . .I was joking, man."

"No." Sam backed off and winced, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "Why did you do that, anyway? It was useless. I'm still. . ." his finger twirled beside his head, "you know."

"Sam, don't." _Don't go there._

"Dean, you saw what I did in there!"

"What you did was lose your temper! Hell, I lost my temper!"

"But it could mean. . ."

"Nothing, Sam!" _I said don't go there._ "It means nothing."

"You don't know that."

Dean was definitely feeling sober now. "I'm telling you Sam, this is bullshit."

"We don't know what's happening to me!"

"What, because you decided to knock down a few freaks in a bar? Are you seriously going to label that going darkside? 'Cause if that's the case then I was screwed way before I ever made that pact." Dean winced at the sudden pain in his brother's eyes. Shit, only the great Dean Winchester could talk about his pact with the demon like it was some goddamn vacation rental contract. "Look. You got pissed off. No big deal." Sam turned from him again, started to walk away, but Dean gritted his teeth and pulled him back. "Hey, I wasn't finished!"

"Yes, you were." Sam yanked his arm away.

"Dude, what is with you?" Dean frowned at him, studied him. "Look, just pull your boxers out of your ass and talk to me, huh?"

Sam's nostrils flared as he breathed heavily, his jaw clenching tight. He jabbed a finger down the road, back where they had left the bar. "Those people in there? That was nothing. That was nothing compared to what I could have done to them." He paused. "Or what I wanted to do to them."

Dean felt the remnants of his anger dissolve into concern. "What are you talking about?"

"Forget it, Dean."

"That's why you pulled me out?"

"I had to leave. I had to, God, I wish – I wish I could explain it."

Dean felt like he had when he first learned of Sam's visions. Sucker-punched and not sure what to say. "Sam, that's a good thing, right? I mean you didn't go all postal in there. You controlled it. We left."

"I was holding back," Sam said. "But I tell you, Dean, after that man bumped you and I saw how you grabbed your hand – I snapped. It was like a bolt of energy. I felt like I could take out every person in that place. It scared me."

"And you got it under control," Dean reaffirmed. He found a smile, but it didn't linger. "So what, you were protecting me? I thought that whole protector thing was my gig."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, well, I did say it was my turn to save your ass for a change."

Dean acknowledged that with a tilt of his head and pursed his lips. "True. Not exactly what I had in mind, though."

Sam's mouth widened, and he laughed. He looked down at the ground and fucking _laughed_, his shoulders shaking, his hair flopping over his eyes. Dean tried to grin, but the knot in his stomach wouldn't allow it.

"Aw, God, I'm screwed, man," he said after the chuckles faded. "I'm so screwed." He still smiled, but it was rueful. He walked to the front of the car and sat on the hood, searching the night sky. There was nothing to see, only the spontaneous appearance of clouds backlit with distant lightning. "This thing in me – I can feel it."

Dean held up a hand. "Whoa, whoa, wait. This thing? What thing?"

"This – this feeling. This expansive. . .this power. I'm trying, but – I like it, Dean. I like how it feels."

Dean's chest constricted. His brows drew down over concerned eyes, and he angled his head so he could hear better, because this. . .this wasn't right, surely he was missing something. "What power, Sam?" He heard his voice harden. "You mean like visions-type power? 'Cause I thought that was done."

"No! It's – God, I wish I could tell you! It's like," his eyes had gone from dark to light, much like a enthralled child's. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap. "It's like that feeling you get around Christmas time, you know? When you're looking forward to something and you just know you're going to get it, but the waiting is killing you."

Dean slowly raised his hip and eased onto the hood beside his brother. "All I can remember about feeling like that is when I wanted those Transformers." He managed a desperate chuckle. "Man, that was ages ago. Can't even remember playing with the things. I think you ate them." He frowned again. "I think that was the last time we had a real Christmas."

"How old were we?"

"Dunno. Not sure. I think you were four."

Sam grinned. "And I ate your Transformer?"

"Well, the dog sure as hell didn't."

Sam's mouth quirked. "We didn't have a dog."

"Exactly."

Sam's head lowered again, and he seemed more like the Sam that Dean knew. He looked up at the sky again, and shook his head. "I don't know, man," he sighed, "it's just – something's going on, and I'm not as scared of it as I should be. That's a good thing, though, right?" His hazel eyes sought Dean's greener ones, needing reassurance.

Dean sure as hell hoped so. Dammit, was he ever going to reach a point when he didn't have to worry? "Hey, whatever moves your furniture." He looked up at the stars, wondering just what Sam was seeing up there. "Just don't freak out when I get a little backed into a corner, huh? Not like I can't take care of myself, just because. . .hell, Sam, you were the one that said to leave those dudes alone in the first place!"

"Take care of yourself? You mean like you took care of yourself in Ohio?" And Sam turned, and fixed him with a gaze so impassioned that Dean's breath caught. "Dean, all these years you've looked out for me. Can't I return the favor, just for a little while?"

Dean swallowed hard, and lowered his head. This was a feeling he was just starting to recognize, something deep within him that stirred when he heard the unabashed love in his brother's voice. It had always been there, but Dean had been so busy being the big brother that it never occurred to him that the years between them weren't many, and that adulthood had further closed the gap. This Sam was perfectly capable of taking care of himself and Dean, and more than willing to do so. "No, you can't," he told his younger brother firmly as a fat raindrop fell onto the hood, "because you're a wuss. And if you ever start a fight like that again I'll kick your ass after kicking theirs."

"Pfft. Glad to see some things never change." Sam smirked. Another drop fell, prompting him from his seat on the hood. He opened his car door.

"Damn straight." Dean climbed in behind the wheel and cranked up his baby. The rev of the engine combined with the sudden downpour drowned what Sam said next.

Above them the storm brewed, and watched them closely.


	2. Chapter 2

I should say that, in addition to catching the typos (read that as 'trying to'), I'm making some dialog adjustments as well. Just cause I'm anal like that. : ) And because a story is never really finished. - K

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The one thing that kept them going during their dark days was the job. The hunt, the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rush of – screw it. Dean had long since stopped trying to convince himself that he had a glamorous life. He sighed and flung the map he had been studying onto the cracked surface of the linoleum table. They were in another freakin' motel room, another claustrophobic, temporary place that marked their freakish lives. Sure, every once in a while the room would be interesting, like the sixties psychedelic room with the swirly comforters, or that sweet time they ended up in a place with a raised bed shaped like a champagne glass. Of course the fact that they had to share that bed was a bitch. Any sexual fantasies were quick, with a trip to the bathroom to ensure privacy. But it was just too good a room not to let the mind wander, so Dean's did, graciously, until the morning he opened blissful eyes to the mirrored ceiling and saw the reflection of his brother laying there.

The shock kept him from jerking off for a week.

Their current room wasn't as classy. It looked like a Holiday Inn, only not as posh, but at least it wasn't dingy. The walls were white, the bedspreads were white, the chairs were light and clean; to his mind it was practically Mary Poppins. Sam was sitting on one of the twin-sized beds, propped against the headboard, his long legs crossed at the ankles with heels close to the edge, and a thick volume in his hands. It didn't even have anything to do with the supernatural. Instead, Sam had been burying himself in various religions, looking for hidden clues, searching for that one miracle that would free Dean up to live his life as he should. Dean was pretty certain he wasn't going to find anything but confusion in those volumes, but he had to give Sam kudos for trying. No way was he going to venture into that realm. Once he was eyeing the scythe and hearing the hounds, yeah, maybe he could see having a throw-down or two with God, but for now the only way he could keep his head above water was to work the jobs and not think about the future, or lack thereof.

The problem was, jobs were plenty. Well, it shouldn't have been a problem, only there was suddenly more activity that he knew what to do with, and there was Sam laying on his bed with his thumb up his ass. "Sam. SAM."

"What?" Sam set down the volume calmly.

"You gonna come over here and look at this stuff or do I have to try that Andy shit and jam it into that thick skull of yours?"

The mention of Andy got a grimace, and Dean almost felt sorry for it, but it worked. Sam stood and padded in thick socks across the carpet. He joined Dean at the small table, flicking half-heartedly through the printouts and papers that Dean had strewn over the smooth surface. One glance at the map, a shrug, and he said, "I don't know, Dean. Take your pick."

Dean's eyes widened. "Take my pick?" He pursed his lips. "Okay. How about this one, possible banshee spotted in Wilmington. Or maybe the dead corpse that's come to life nine different times? Or how about this, I kick your ass until you clear that fog in your brain and help me out? I swear I'd get more help from Jo than you at this point!"

"Then fucking call Jo!"

Dean glared at him. Sam glared back. Dean waited, knowing his brother, knowing that the anger would fade into that annoying puppy-dog look, knowing that he would eventually say. . .

"Sorry, man."

Yep. There it was. Dean exhaled heavily. There were times when he wished Sam wouldn't be so predictable. Of course, the times he was unpredictable Dean wasn't really okay with either, so it was sort of a lose-lose situation.

Sam just sighed woefully and relented, pulling the papers back to him. "So, this corpse, the one that keeps coming back to life – you thinking maybe demonic possession?" His voice strung out in a tired drawl.

Dean was studying him, and saw Sam squirm. Good. "Maybe. Either that or the afterlife really sucks. Can't think of anything else, though I'm not sure why the demon would keep leaving and returning to the same body. I mean after a time – gross." Dean shuddered.

"It probably has a way to preserve the body."

"Yeah, but even that can only last for so long." Dean caught Sam eyeing his book wistfully. "Hey. You with me?"

"Hm? Sure."

"Sam, come on. Leave the religious theories to the Pope. We still have a job to do."

"I know that," Sam responded quickly. Dean just looked at him until Sam gave in and turned himself over. "So far, we've encountered demons that possess living people," he continued, sounding more focused. "Now with what was released from hell, there's no telling what we might be up against."

"And seeing as how dead people don't usually come to life that many times. . ." Dean started gathering the papers. "Great. The Smelly Cheese lady it is, then."

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah." Dean stood, papers in hand ready to shove them into the leather bag that served as a study-catch-all. The motion stopped when he realized Sam was looking at him with the utmost seriousness on his face.

"I really am sorry. I'm being an ass, and I don't want that to be – I mean – "Sam let the sentence hang with an apologetic shrug.

Be what? The way Dean would remember him? His last thought of his brother being that he was a dick? Dean could feel then tension around his eyes soften. "Yeah, I know," he said, and looked back at the stack of papers, refusing to meet his brother's eyes as he readied their things. He'd had enough emotional waffling and waving about in the past two days to last what was left of his lifetime. If hell was anything like this, he really was screwed. Probably why that Demon kept coming back. Too much Lifetime TV down there or something.

They checked out quickly, and hit the road.

Cruising the flat highways of the Midwest turned out to be more of an adventure than they had anticipated. What stared out as a warm, sunny trip quickly turned into a game of vehicular dodge-ball with popcorn thunderstorms that appeared and vanished with little warning. For once, Dean turned off his music and tried to tune in on a local station for the weather. He didn't mind driving in storms, but having grown up in the Midwest and working many a job in the Plains, he knew how fast severe storms could pop up this time of year. And they were popping up everywhere.

He pulled over to let a barrage of vehicles pass them on the way to a dark, massive cloud that hung low in the sky behind them, something Dean had been eyeing with uncertainty and managed to drive around. "Twister chasers." He grinned. "Gotta love it."

"Can't this thing get a decent station?" Sam fiddled with the knob on the dashboard.

"We can backtrack and ask them what's up. Man, I'd love to get my hands on some of that equipment. That is just sweet." Dean watched the fading vehicles in the review mirror. The cloud behind them looked ominous.

"Leave them alone, Dean."

Dean slapped Sam's hand away from the radio and tried the tuner himself. A voice crackled over the speakers, making Dean beam in response. "See? Just need to know how to handle her."

"You scare me sometimes."

The radio crackled out.

Sam's eyes never left the dial."Yeah. You were saying?"

Dean cursed and pulled back onto the road.

He could remember being in a few tornadoes when he was a kid. For Sam, the memories were probably spotty at best, coming from instances when they just happened to pass through the nation's heartland and swerve into the path of one. But this season was proving to be the most active storm season in over thirty years, and Dean had his theory, as did Sam, but neither one voiced it. They left one storm behind only to drive into another, and another, and by the time the sun was starting to set Sam was again tuning the radio, trying to get a bulletin on the warnings. What lay ahead of them looked pretty damn nasty, to say the least. Dean was determined to drive into it.

Sam finally caught a report on a local radio channel. Static spat over the words. "The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning for eastern Lamar County until six pm." The mechanized voice continued to drone out the details as Sam keyed the GPS on his phone. No signal. He sighed and opened his road map, snapping it in the air to flatten it. He tracing a route with his forefinger. "Dean, that's like forty miles away."

Dean shrugged. "So it'll be gone by the time we get there."

"At the rate you're driving? We'll be there in less than twenty minutes."

"You're exaggerating, Sam."

"I never exaggerate where you're concerned."

Dean wondered just what that comment meant.

Sam tapped his arm a moment later and pointed to a spot on the map. "Let's just stop here and let this thing pass, huh?"

"Come on now, Sammy, haven't you ever wondered what was over the rainbow?" Dean flashed a smile.

Sam returned his gaze evenly. "I thought that's why we left Kansas, Dean."

Dean laughed. Score one for Sasquatch. "Yeah, you're right. Besides, I've seen enough evil old witches to last me a lifetime."

Sam nodded, then chuckled. "Hey, you remember the time we went into that hospital and the old lady you thought was a witch scared the crap out of you? Told you to fix her crucifix on the wall?"

That bitch. Dean's smile faded. "Dude, that wasn't funny."

"Oh, it _so_ was! I swear I've never seen you move that fast, Dean, I thought you were gonna. . ."

"Shut up, Sam."

Sam cackled and folded his map.

Asshole.

The wind was picking up as Dean pulled into the parking lot of a small diner. It had a classic fifties look and feel to it. Chrome decor on the outside reflected the oncoming storm. The front window stretched the whole length of the building, with the counter fully visible from the street. Dean almost expected a cute girl in roller skates and a short skirt to come to the car for their order. He'd seen that once, even dated the girl for a few weeks. Then he found out about the football player boyfriend and decided that getting out of town would be a good option, seeing as how the player was in college football, not highschool, about the size of a tank, and turned out to be the cousin of a rather pissed-off hunter he was trying to avoid. "Hm. I don't know, Sam. Big windows."

"We could go over there." Sam jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward a brick building without really looking up at it.

"Nah. This may not be not the safest port in a storm, but man, I'm starving. I could really murder a donut or five." Dean put the car in park and leaned to one hip, fishing out his wallet to check his cash. "And coffee. Gotta have coffee. I mean, no offense man, but your conversations lately haven't exactly been stimulating. I need something to keep me conscious."

"Coffee and donuts? Would you like a badge, too?"

"Hey, the cops might get right up my ass, but coffee and donuts? That's a winner. Speaking of which," Dean's eyes flashed to the counter, "don't see any five ohs or smokies in there, do you?"

Sam squinted through the glass. "No, looks good. Don't think much of the waitress though. And I was hoping for some light entertainment with my meal." He gave a woeful sigh.

Dean looked at him in some confusion while flipping through his bills. "What light entertainment?"

"You trying to hit up some girl."

"What. . ." Dean caught sight of a burly man pouring coffee into a mug. "Oh. Right." He opened his door, pocketing his wallet as he climbed out. A sudden gust of wind caught him unawares, and he grunted and braced the door before closing it heavily. "Looks like we might be in for one hell of a storm, Sammy-boy."

"Oh! You mean the tornado that's baring down on us? You noticed that?" He shook his head. "And here we are, walking into a glass building."

"Can the sarcasm, would ya? Let's get some food. If we need to, we'll head over there, like you said." He pointed to the sturdy brick building across the street with a half faded sign that read 'Smith's Hardware'.

"Oh, God, I didn't read the sign," Sam moaned. "Because if I can't be in a glass house during a tornado, I really want to be in a place full of nails and saws."

"Jesus Christ, Sam, just come on! I'll outrun the damn thing in the Impala if I have to." Dean tugged him by his t-shirt sleeve toward the diner.

Dean forced the door open against the wind, and they practically blew inside. He rolled his shoulders and flashed a smile at the people who glanced up at them, then returned to their plates of food. The bell on the door stilled, it's chimes floating into oblivion. The man refilling coffee mugs looked up. "You gents trying to outrun the storm? 'Cause it's heading this way."

Dean waved away Sam's look of concern. "I guess we need a to-go then, huh?" He slid onto a stool and took a plastic-covered menu, pushing another into Sam's hand and sending him a look he hoped was designed to calm him down.

"At this point you need a 'stay-here'. What'll it be?" The man crossed behind the counter and looked at them expectantly.

Dean was in menu heaven, or almost. "Oh man, yeah, let's see – no donuts. Crap. Oh, here we go. . .turkey sandwich, fries, apple cobbler – man there are days when I _love_ road trips. Sam?"

"Uh, I'll have the same." He darted a nervous glance at the window behind him.

"My brother, the non-conformist." Dean teased, and set the menu back against the salt and pepper shakers. He threaded his fingers on the counter top, looking around at the people who had started enjoying a casual meal, and had since decided it would be prudent to pick up the pace a bit.

"Right. Gimme ten," the man said. And to Dean's surprise, he set down the coffee pot and headed back to the grill. A moment later, his face appeared in the cut out window.

Dean sent a questioning look to Sam, who seemed just as surprised. Dean leaned on his elbows, raising from his seat to look into the window. "This a one man operation?" he called over the pop and crackle of fries going into the oil.

"It is right now," the man said loudly, "my help decided today would be a great day to have a baby."

"Wow, that – that sucks, dude. I mean, it's great! But," Dean swirled his finger around to encompass the diner, "you know."

"You've no idea. She's my wife."

Sam's brow's raised. "Your wife?"

"Yep."

Sam leaned forward like Dean, and looked like he could reach out and through the window. "Then pardon me asking but – what the hell are you still doing here?"

"Got no one else. I tell you though, this storm just might knock out business."

Dean eyed the people behind him. Some were rising to try and outrun the storm, looking around for their check. He suddenly had a bad feeling of putting a load on this man. Without giving it much thought he slid off the stool and walked through the swinging doors, into the cook's station.

The man jumped, and waved a thick, but blunt, knife at him. "Hey, wait, you can't. . ."

"What's your name?" Dean took the thick sandwich bread from his other hand while eyeing the fries.

The man looked at him, incredulous. "Bruce Baldrige."

He was a slightly older man, probably in his late forties, which made Dean doubt that this coming baby was his first. Seeing the calm with which he relayed the news, he figured the man had at least two kids already. "As in Baldrige's Grill?"

"That's right. My wife and I own the place."

"What about your other kids?"

He looked at Dean for a moment, then relaxed and cracked a smile. "You're too observant for your own good, that's what. I have one other. In college."

That explained his reluctance to close, even for a day. Dean held out his hand to shake. "I'm Dean." He gestured to the window with the bread. "You're about to have some customers skip out on you out there. My brother, he's real picky about his sandwiches, so why don't you let me handle this and you get those people out before they meet The Wizard in person. Huh?" A distant roll of thunder punctuated his remark. Despite this, the owner looked understandably uncertain. "Look," Dean added, "I promise I'm not going to sneak out the back door, and you'll see me if I go through the front."

Bruce glanced at the bandage that was wrapped around Dean's hand and wrist. "You sure?"

"Absolutely."

Bruce eyed him for a moment more, then decided the risk of losing two sandwiches versus eight checks was worth it. He hurried to the till as Dean pushed up his sleeves and caught Sam's eye through the cut out window. "Yo, Sam! You – look – just – put your eyes back in your head, okay? Mayo?"

Sam was watching him with a disconcerting expression of surprise and delight. He grinned at Dean, and nodded, then made a scene of sitting back to be waited on by his brother.

Dean made the sandwiches the way they liked them; Sam's with a little mayo and more mustard, heavy on the lettuce and turkey, no tomato. Dean piled everything possible on his. The fries came out of the oil, and he set the rack to the side to let them cool. Went to the fountain for drinks, and popped out real quick to set two mugs and the coffee pot in front of his brother, who was still grinning. "You missed your calling," he said.

"Bitch," Dean replied, but he winked. And he returned moments later with two white plates loaded with thick sandwiches and fries. He set the plates down on the counter and sat beside Sam, pushing a fry into his own mouth as he swivelled to look at the darkening sky. "How much time you reckon we have?" he called out to Bruce.

Bruce spared a quick glance to the front window, then continued ringing checks. "Not as much as you'd like," he replied calmly. "You boys eat up. I got a cooler in the back we can get into if it comes down to it."

"Nice," Sam said around a mouthful of turkey. "I always wanted to be in a frozen coffin during a storm." He chewed and swallowed. "Dean, this is really good."

"Of course it is. I made it. Your last meal has to be a good one." He raised his own sandwich to his mouth right as the power blinked out. "Aw, crap." They turned as one to look at the suddenly menacing sky, gunmetal grey tinged with green. To the casual onlooker, it heralded the approach of nasty weather. To Sam and Dean, it was the lingering color on a corpse. Visible death and decay.

Dean suddenly had a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he set his sandwich carefully on his plate. Sam did the same.

The few patrons that remained in the diner either stood quickly and left, if their checks were cleared out, or rushed to the register to pay. Sam was on his feet and running out the front door, followed by a spattering of people that were suddenly very eager to clear out the diner. Dean joined Bruce at the register as he ushered the rest of the patrons out, ticket paid or not. Bruce was yelling something about the post office, and Dean saw people heading in a stream down the street.

Sam was standing in front of the Impala. He saw the wind whip at Sam's hair, throwing it about his eyes and face before pushing it back in a powerful wave. Then everything stilled. Dean saw Sam's eyes fix on a point in the sky right as Bruce nudged him and said, "This doesn't feel good. Get him in here and get in the back. Now."

Dean started for the door. "How far away was that storm?"

"Doesn't matter, it's here now. Get him back inside!" Bruce reached forward and planted his big hand against Dean's back, giving him a shove.

Dean ran out of the diner and gave a piercing whistle that Sam couldn't help but hear. Sam's long legs pushed him back towards the door, and he barreled inside, his face flushed with wonder. "I think I saw it, Dean! The funnel!"

"That's great, Sam. Get in the back." Dean pulled Sam in front of him and quickly steered him to the rear of the restaurant.

Bruce was waiting in front of what looked like an upright cadaver storage unit. Dean balked, but didn't have time to utter a word of regret before he and Sam were shoved in.

"Do not open this door," Bruce commanded as the air around them grew thick. "I'll be in the walk-in freezer." And the door slammed on Dean's open mouth.

There was a slight hiss of suction, then complete silence.

Dean swallowed hard and closed his eyes, feeling Sam right behind him. He did _not_ like tight spaces. "Well." His voice sounded flat. "This is probably the most uncomfortable situation I've ever been in." He could feel Sam's breath on his neck, feel Sam's chest muscles shifting against his back, and had to admit that this was closer than he ever wanted to be to his brother. But he relaxed back against him, trying to remain stoic about the whole thing, because dude – really. It was embarrassing. He tried to let his mind wander, but that proved disastrous. "Shit! My car!"

He physically felt Sam tense, and really, that was just – wrong. "Nothing you can do about it."

"My car's out there!"

"Dude, what are you gonna do? Put it in here with us?"

Dean swore he could hear howling. "Come on, Sam! You've seen those shows on the Weather Channel! You know what tornadoes do to cars!"

"Which is why you decided to drive into the path of one, right?"

"Don't gimme that! Oh, man – my car."

"Dean! Enough, huh? Relax." Dean felt Sam's hands on his shoulders, felt the subtle squeeze that was meant to be reassuring.

Dean stiffened, rather than relaxed. "Could you not step on my heel?"

"Could you move your hand?"

Dean swallowed again and made certain his hands remained in front of him.

"You didn't put onions on your sandwich, did you, Dean?"

One elbow jab directly behind him was all it took.

It felt like hours, but a later check of his watch showed that they had been in the I-wanna-be-a-casket-when-I-grow-up sized space for only ten minutes. Bruce opened the door with a relieved smile, letting the brothers out.

Dean stumbled out and inhaled deeply. "Air. Oh, God, I love air." He caught his pale reflection on the surface of a boiler, and gave Sam a quick glance. He appeared unruffled, damn him, except for his wind-tossed hair. "You okay?"

"Yeah, you?" He saw Sam take in his haggard expression, and quickly schooled it.

Together they rushed to the front.

The diner wasn't damaged. Minor debris had blown into the street. The sky was a light grey, almost white against a darkening horizon, and people were starting to come out from hiding, taking stock of things, talking together. The small town had dodged a bullet.

"I think it stayed aloft," Sam said as he studied the clouds, then walked around the side of the diner.

Dean's attention was elsewhere. He had made a beeline for his car, muttering a profound, "Oh, thank god" as he checked the windows. The Impala was flaked with leaves and small twigs that stuck to the remaining moisture. He picked the leaves from the windshield, running his fingers over the hood and along the side.

"Everything okay?" Bruce asked, stepping back past him to check the roof of his diner.

"Think so." Dean stopped his inspection long enough to survey the roof with Bruce. "Looking good on your end?"

"Think so. Nothing missing up there."

Sam emerged from around the opposite corner. "The back of the diner looks good."

"Got lucky." Bruce nodded. "Got damned lucky. And don't think I won't remember how you helped out today. Anytime you're out this way, meals are on the house."

Dean gave a small smile that was interrupted by the rumbling of his stomach. "Don't suppose our sandwiches are still in there?" he asked, rubbing his belly.

Sam just shook his head at him with a smile on his face, and walked back into the diner.

Dean looked at the sky, then followed.

Bruce had earned himself a hefty tip that evening, with a demand that he shut down the restaurant to see his wife. Whether he took the advice, the boys never knew.

*************************

They found a small motel just outside Perry, Oklahoma, and settled in for the night. Lightning flashed in the skies around them, heating the already charged air. Dean watched it idly from the window for several minutes before closing the curtain and rejoining his brother at the table, where they had unfolded their travel map. Sam's laptop was logged in to the wireless network provided by the motel, and the television was on the local news. "Still looks rough out there," Dean said as he sat down carefully so as not to jar the table. "I swear these things are following us. Guess we should keep our ears open tonight. Huh. That'll be a first, hunting tornadoes instead of ghosts." He bent over to unlace his boots.

"You may be closer to the truth than you think." Sam turned the paper he'd been writing on to face Dean. Dean slid off a boot, wiggled the stiffness from his toes, and pulled the sheet to him. "I've pinpointed the areas that have been affected by these storms," Sam continued, and tapped a region on the map that had been enclosed in pencil. "We're looking at an area about one hundred and fifty miles wide and about eighty miles deep. This is where most of the activity is situated."

Dean just shrugged at him and tugged off his other boot. "It's tornado alley, Sam."

"I know. But take a look at this." He turned his laptop to face Dean. "Seventeen major storms reported in Nebraska alone."

"What, you gonna ditch me and be a weatherman, now?" Dean pulled the laptop closer to him, then studied the sheet in his hand. "So it's a big system. Freak weather happens, especially out here."

"Seventeen storms, Dean."

"Massive weather front, Sam."

"Dean. . ."

"What, you think these storms are coming from sort of demonic activity or something?" His smile was playful, and he tossed the sheet back to the table.

"Well, we did open the gates to hell."

"You're reaching, tiger." Dean knew his dismissive tone irritated Sam. He stood and carried his boots to the foot of his bed, set them down, then reclined on the mattress, clasping his hands over his chest and crossing his ankles. He was done. "Sometimes a storm's just a storm. Wait it out. If this energy keeps up, we'll check it out. Otherwise, I say let the Weather Channel have it's day."

"Dean. . ."

"Demonic activity is usually characterized by electrical storms, not wind funnels."

"There is no reason not to assume that loads of negative energy wouldn't muck with the weather patterns." Sam stood and walked to his own bed. The old mattress creaked as he sat. "What's with you? Normally you'd be all over this."

"Nothing! I just haven't seen anything that proves this isn't Mother Nature's version of PMS."

"I know you've been thinking it."

Damn his brother and his freaky insight. It was true. There was something different about these storms, something Dean couldn't put his finger on. He was no meteorologist, but he knew right when he felt it, and this wasn't it. Of course, it could be his nerves talking. "Okay. I've thought about it. And I've decided to wait and see what happens tomorrow." He cut Sam a stern look that clearly said the conversation was over. The thunder rumbled deeply, shaking the walls. Dean could feel it in his chest, and he could tell by looking at Sam that he felt it too.

"Fine," Sam groused. "I'll just shut everything down, then. Maybe the answer will magically appear to us in our sleep."

"Suits me." Dean snuggled back and closed his eyes. He heard the catch of the laptop as it snapped shut, heard the frustration in shoelaces being jerked from stiff shoes. He cracked open an eye. His little brother looked distressed, and that was never a good thing. Usually, he would wave Dean down in annoyance when he didn't get his way, or was fed up, but this looked like the beginnings of actual anger. "What's this really about?" he asked.

"What?"

Dean knew his brother. He knew how to put two and two together, and he didn't like the way the numbers were adding up. "Don't give me that! You were the one that wanted to go after that demon in Ohio. You've had your head buried in ritual books for two weeks. You picked that living corpse for our next gig, I'm willing to bet because you think it's demon-possessed, and now you're interested in electrical storms that may or may not have supernatural significance." Dean sat up and swung his legs over the bed. Two and two suddenly added up to a very nasty figure. "Sam, don't do this," he warned.

"Do what?"

All innocent. Right. "Don't go hunting this thing out! I'm telling you, leave it alone."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Dean rose. "I'm talking about the sudden hard-on you have for demonic activity, Sam! I'm talking about that damn crossroads demon! You're looking for it, aren't you?"

Sam quickly brushed his hair from his forehead, more from annoyance than need. "What do you expect me to do, Dean? You won't do anything to help yourself. You really think I'm just going to let this thing happen to you?"

"Yes! That's exactly what I expect you to do!"

"That's bullshit!"

Dean couldn't understand his brother's venom. Well, he could, but the anger that Sam suddenly let loose, that dark gleam in his brother's eyes, both made him uncomfortable. "Besides, you won't find it this way, Sam. You have to summon it at a crossroads, you know that."

"I tried," Sam spat. "It won't come to me."

He – what? Dean gave his head a shake, like he hadn't heard correctly. "Wait, what do you mean you tried?"

"You heard me." Sam's voice was low, and the anger was quickly being replaced with grief.

That terrified Dean. He could have lost Sam a second time if that bitch had decided to show her face. "God, no, Sam, please. Don't do this." He crossed the room quickly and took his brother by the arms. Made him look into his eyes. "Just leave this alone, okay? You can't do anything, anyway. I," he paused uncomfortably, "I promised."

Sam's head jerked slightly in surprise. "You – promised? Dean, what did you promise?"

Dean had been dreading this. He knew it would come up sooner or later, and he had hoped it would be much, much later. He hadn't relied on Sam's tenacity, though, which was a boneheaded move on his part. Sam's tenacity had saved him once before, when he found a faith healer that repaired Dean's damaged heart and left it like new. Never mind the circumstance that made it possible; it was done. Dean was alive due to Sam's sleepless nights on the internet and cell phone, desperate to save his older brother's life. There was no reason to expect any less than that same effort now, only. . . "I can't negotiate. I have to do this."

"Why?"

Dean gripped Sam's arms tightly, kneading the tense muscle. He felt his mouth quiver under the sudden onslaught of emotion, recalling the pure fear and anguish in his soul when Sam had died. "Because if I back out of this deal – you'll drop dead. You'll die, Sam. That's kinda what I was trying to avoid in the first place, you know?"

Sam just looked at him, and it was hard to tell if his expression held shock or disgust. He gently pushed himself away, and Dean let him go, reluctantly. "Sam, listen to me. I had no choice. I had no choice! I couldn't just – I couldn't, you know?" Again, Dean felt the weight on his shoulders, and dammit, it wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to keep this close to his chest, locked in his heart, Sam wasn't even supposed to know about the deal in the first damn place. That he found out was a fluke, and it was ruining what could have been a great final year for him.

Final year. Oh – God!

"So if I try to save you?" Sam asked in a low, broken voice.

"I don't know, Sam. I don't know what that would do, but it isn't worth the risk, is it?"

"It is to me."

Dean gritted his teeth and lowered his head. He started to chuckle, which made Sam frown at him in alarm. The chuckled turned into laughter, and Dean walked to his bed and fell on it, rolling to his back, letting the mirth take hold. "Man," he gasped out, "this is the most fucked up catch-22 in the history of ever, you know that?"

Sam managed a smile. "Yeah, well, trust you to make a crappy situation even crappier."

"Hey! It's a Winchester gift. Don't knock it."

"Hmm." Sam nodded and scratched the back of his head subconsciously. Dean felt a familiar warm pull in his chest at seeing such a Sam-maneuver. In that time. . . _after_. . .he had cataloged all of his brother's habitual movements, committed them to memory, and to see them play out before him brought endless moments of nostalgic, tormented joy. "But we're still checking out these electrical storms."

Dean gave in with a sigh. "Whatever you say, Kemosabe." He resumed his earlier position, hands threaded across his chest, his ankles crossed. He fell into a doze, but wasn't so out of it that he didn't notice Sam turning off the lights some time later, and pulling a blanket over him. He could feel Sam hover, then heard the springs creak as he climbed into his own bed.

Dean allowed himself to linger on the warmth of that feeling.


	3. Chapter 3

That night, Sam didn't sleep.

He stared at the ceiling, his hands pillowing his head. He had long since chucked his actual pillow to the floor, followed by the blankets. His bare feet rubbed against each other nervously. He raised a knee only to lower it again, turned to his side, and huffed. Rolled to his other side. Sat up.

Dean was sound asleep in the bed beside him, the motion of his chest hardly visible. His own blankets had been discarded in the heat, as had his t-shirt. His necklace remained, the one constant with Dean Winchester, the only thing he never removed, not even when showering. His lips were parted slightly, his lashes still against flushed cheeks. He wasn't even snoring, which meant he was caught deep in the throes of slumber.

Good.

Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbed at his face, at his hair, and stood. As quietly as he could, he walked to the coffee pot and opened the lid, then hesitated. There was no way to brew more without making noise, heck, no way to keep the aroma from waking his brother. A run-down gas station was about five minutes down the road, but he needed to save his money. Not that a cup of coffee was that expensive, well, a cup of watery gas station coffee wasn't, not like Starbucks, and man could he go for a latte right now. Maybe he could hook up the coffee maker in the bathroom and shut the door.

He needed sleep, not coffee.

What he _really_ needed, was to go punch his fist through a wall.

He opted for his laptop instead, not punching it, but carrying it to the corner of the small room and settling himself on the floor, balancing the computer on his thighs. He flipped the catch and opened the top. Quickly hit the mute button. Stared at the screen. Pulled up a self-compiled list of recent paranormal activity, a document he had been secretly cataloging.

These days, haunts littered the country like discarded trash, and the particular kinds of activity were disturbingly familiar, which wasn't surprising seeing what they had unleashed. Well, what Jake had unleashed, what the yellow-eyed demon unleashed, whatever. It was evident that the demons and such from hell were already wrecking havoc across the nation. Sam's eyes darted down the list, and he added the haunts that Dean had mentioned earlier. Reports were still very scattered, still nothing to go on, nothing to really pinpoint.

He cleared the screen and went online. Pulled up recent newspaper articles from neighboring states. There were some unusual deaths, but no more so than normal. He eyed a few underground paranormal sights that he trusted, the ones that were more in search of the truth than sensationalism, all relied upon by hunters.

His favorite was simply dubbed "PA" for Paranormal Activity. A generic site popped up, feeding curious lurkers with vague information about haunts and religion and detailing old exorcism rituals. (Leaving out a few key components, of course.) There was a code box in the bottom right hand corner. Members of the site could type in a code and get all the info they needed on the latest sightings and goings-on. Hunters had a different code, passed from person to person in the same manner as everything else in the eccentric community: by word of mouth. This code took them past the cover site and into the underworld. Sam's code had been provided by Ash, who initially helped to organize the site as a means to unite the community, before deciding, as a result of lengthy beers and too many bar fights, that hunters generally worked best alone.

Sam punched in the code, and waited.

If the mute hadn't been on, the first thing he would have heard was the sound of evil laughter, which showed that the site was in fact working, though no screen showed. The second thing was the Ghostbusters theme, which Ash said he added to piss off Jordan, who helped form the site, or tried to take over the site, or bashed Ash's notion of the site, depending on who you talked to. Jordan, whoever he was, was the person that kept all of the information current, but apparently hadn't been able to figure out how to turn off the music.

Sam couldn't help but grin. Even if he couldn't hear it, he knew the music was there, and it was a melancholy reminder of a interesting individual. He missed Ash.

The site said nothing about hunters. There was no master listing, no "For the hunter nearest you, call 1-800-Get-Fukd" advertisements, nothing to insinuate that hunters even existed. Hunters kept to themselves, each one having their own way of working things, their own networks of people they used for information.

What the site _did_ do, was keep an updated list of odd occurrences around the nation, divided by region. Disturbing things not found in the local papers, strange things even _Weekly World News_ couldn't get a hold of. Like the numbers of possessions reported through individual accounts consisting of concerned family members, pastors, and the like.

Those numbers were increasing. Fast.

Sam pulled the laptop closer, raising his knees to brace it, his forehead wrinkling in concentration. In the Midwest alone, there were fifteen reports of disappearances and five cases of known exorcisms over the past two and a half weeks. Some of the missing people re-emerged, and their cases were dumped. Other people were still missing. Due to the increase in exorcisms and reports of demonic activity from avid church-goers, some anxious priests were proclaiming the beginnings of the apocalypse.

While Sam held reservation for certain sects of organized religion, after seeing just what the devout were capable of and what tiny things could set them on edge, he had to admit the priests weren't too far from right.

Sam searched deeper, peeling back the layers. Two exorcisms in New York. One in Florida. One in California. Very scattered, and for all he knew that was the norm, but still. In two and a half weeks? In a year, maybe. He didn't even know anymore, over the past year the increase in activity had become rather overwhelming, and even more so now. It was harder to keep the facts in his head, harder to concentrate. Harder to sleep.

He was fighting nightly urges to roam the streets. He would never tell Dean, but every time they were near a storm, he wanted to run _to_ it, not from it, which clouded his instincts. Those storms – he knew them like an old friend, like they weren't a collection of appropriate scientific happenings, but living beings. He could feel the heart beat of the thunder, feel the static of the lightning, the thirst of the planet for the rain that, in some places, refused to fall. Thirst like blood, like needing a life for a life. It left chills on his arms, pin-pricks of anxiety trailing up and down his spine. Heat in his tailbone.

He craved it. The storms called to him and some part of him was calling back in recognition. Some part that wanted to go home, a part that filled to bursting like the clouds that hung overhead. Sexual ecstacy had nothing on this.

There was no documentation that officially linked demons with storms. It was known that electrical storms could mark demonic activity, but no one was really sure why. It was just a thing that happened. Was it a build up of negative energy? Wouldn't that also mean there had to be a build up of positive energy? Did it matter?

Was he going crazy? Looking for red eyes in the clouds?

Sam blinked at the screen angrily, then slammed his laptop closed. His head thumped back against the wall as he blocked out the voices he'd been hearing for weeks. Voice saying to join them, they were ready, voices he shouldn't be hearing because the yellow-eyed demon was gone. Screw the demon army, they had no need of him, he hadn't had a vision, surely he was done with that, he was normal.

He had demon blood in him. Regardless.

Of course he could hear them.

**********************

They headed out early, and continued north towards South Dakota. The storms passed by to the east, but with evidence of more activity coming. This was according to the forecaster on the weather radio that Sam insisted on purchasing upon seeing dark clouds once they crossed the border into Nebraska. The small box sat on the dashboard. Before them, the stretch of road seemed endless. The robotic drone of the man's voice on the weather radio made Dean wince into the purple sky before them. "Seriously. I'm about to chuck that thing out the window."

"Suck it up, Dean," Sam said, his thoughtful voice practically a monotone.

"Is that dude for real?"

"Probably not." Sam scrutinized his map.

"I mean that maid on the Jetsons has more personality."

"Yep."

"God, it's catching." Dean sighed and reached for the car radio, only to have his hand slapped away. "Oh, come on, Sam! This is killing me!"

"It's information."

"He hasn't said anything different for the past three hours! I don't think he's taken a _breath_ in the past three hours!"

"Maybe he doesn't need to breathe," Sam muttered, still staring at the map.

"This is insane." Dean slumped back against his seat, his left wrist loosely guiding the steering wheel. He had unwrapped his other hand that morning, working and flexing it more than it needed, but dammit, it was too freakin' humid to go around with a bandaged hand. He gazed out of his side window before returning his attention to the road. He then looked at Sam until the latter caught Dean's eye. Sam pressed his lips together in a thin line, and pointedly folded his map.

Dean nodded. "Thank you. The scholarly one still lives."

"Screw you." Sam shifted in his seat, but a smile played on his lips. "How much longer 'till Bobby's?"

"Hopefully we'll be there by evening. During which time I thought maybe I could listen to some music, seeing as how it's my car and all."

"Sure, fine. Whatever." Sam sighed in a put-upon way and snapped off the weather radio, then clicked on the car's system.

Dean exhaled blissfully and eased his head back against the seat as the wail of a guitar filled the car over a pulsing rhythm. "That's more like it." He heard a snort. "What?"

"It's just a little disconcerting the way your face changes when music comes on." He grinned and pulled out his small headphones. Dean looked on in disbelief as Sam plugged them into the weather radio, and went back to his map. "Incredible," he muttered, and gunned the engine.

Their arrival at Singer's Auto Salvage Yard carried no fanfare, not even the usual threatening growl of Rumsfeld. The hound mix had been Bobby Singer's four-legged alarm, kept on a chain. He was a lumbering, lazy-looking dog, but despite this there was a good reason for the chain. Barking was preferable to having a lawsuit due to a loss of limb. The large mutt had to settle for barking when strangers or friends approached. He barked when the demon Meg approached, and died for it. Bobby hadn't bothered to replace him; the loss had been too great.

The old two-story house Rumsfeld so devotedly guarded hardly looked worth the effort. In fact, it looked ready to tip over, or at least be condemned, but Bobby insisted it was just in desperate need of a paint job, maybe new siding. Dean parked the Impala beside a stout blue pickup truck and eyed the hubcaps that decorated the sides of the house like an oversized bottlecap collection. Everything about the place was laid back, and uniquely Bobby. The front door, which was actually the side door, seeing as how that was where people parked, opened to reveal a sturdy, older man wincing into the yellow glare. He was without his trucker's cap.

It was enough to make Dean want to jump back in his car and drive away.

He stared at Bobby as he climbed out, then slowly closed his door and walked to the older man, eyeing the thinning hair that the hunter always hid. He leaned in close to Bobby's ear, and muttered, "Christo."

"What the hell?" Bobby started, and pulled back to look Dean in the eye.

"Where's your cap?" Sam asked openly, coming up onto the covered porch with them.

Bobby gave a look of disbelief and smacked Dean upside the head. "You asswipe." He turned and stormed inside.

"What?" Dean followed, his hands palm-up before him in a peace offering. "If ever there was a sign of the apocalypse," he pointed to Bobby's bare head, "that's it!"

"He's got a point, Bobby," Sam smiled from behind his brother. "Even when hell opened up, you kept your hat on."

"You're _both_ asswipes." Bobby picked up his dingy cap and plunged it onto his head. His narrow eyes took in the appearance of the Winchester boys. "You wanna remind me why I'm graced with your presence, or do I get to kick you out now?"

"My phone call, Bobby." Sam looked around and settled himself into a sofa. It was definitely into, as he sagged deep into the center of it. Dean opted for the straight-backed chair sitting beside it, out of place, like maybe Bobby had some visitors but little seating to provide them. He listened as Sam continued. "I wanted to know more about these storms you've been having, remember?"

"He's got the hots for some weather chick on tv," Dean quipped.

"Those electrical storms. Right." Bobby disappeared into his kitchen, then emerged with three open beer bottles. "Yeah, I remember now. Reminds me of something else I have to do, actually. If you boys'll excuse me a moment. Sam, go look on my desk at that map. You'll see what I've come up with." He passed two bottles over and walked out.

Sam took a swig from his beer and walked to the table. Dean watched him negotiate his way through the spattering of furniture that seemed to have no more a proper home then they did.

Stacks of books lined the sides of the walls and dripped onto the floors from overflowing shelves. Bits of old articles clung to the walls, some yellow and outdated, others more crisp and new. Dean had thought of Bobby as more of a reference point than an actual hunter, a sort of go-to guy that they took full advantage of. But it was becoming increasingly obvious that the hunter was still in the game, as Sam shoved aside a large notebook that looked to be full of white clippings.

Dean rose, his curiosity getting the better of him. Further inspection of the various clippings showed that not only was Bobby back in play, he was on top of it. "Damn," Dean muttered under his breath, seeing newer folders and articles of strange happenings. "He's cataloging everything."

"What?" Sam was bent over the map.

"I said, he's cataloging. He's got more information here than the freakin' Library of Congress."

"You've no idea. Come here and take a look at this."

Sam was bent nearly double, the fringes of his long bangs threatening to brush the map as he traced a path over it with his finger. Dean joined him, tipping the beer bottle to his lips, then setting it down on top of the map.

Sam winced and moved the bottle to a nearby pile of books. He circled a large area with his index finger. "Here. In Nebraska. Remember what I told you? He's marked where these storms started and followed their path to where they dissipated. And here again, in Wyoming."

"Yeah, and?" Dean snatched up his beer in irritation and bent over the map.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, are you even looking at the map?"

"Sure! I see a lot of little red lines and a lot of little black lines and the black lines are getting fuzzy."

"Try blinking," Sam said, stoically.

"Damn. That works."

"Will you take this seriously?"

"I always take things seriously!"

"Yeah, except this!"

"That's because this is crap!"

"Apparently Bobby doesn't think so!"

Dean straightened, not hiding his moan as his back popped. "Sam, I'm telling you. This means nothing, not to mention Bobby keeps this place lit like a crypt so I can't see this crap anyway. Dude seriously needs to buy a few extra lamps. Now, let's just go for a salt and burn on that cheese lady you wanted to vanquish and forget this, okay?"

Sam's lips pressed together tightly, and he was at the beginnings of a retort when Bobby walked back in. Dean saw him take in their stances, saw the way his brows rose in response, and sighed. The view outside the window suddenly looked damned interesting, for a pile of dead cars.

"So what do you think?" Bobby was talking to Sam, standing behind him. Dean could see their reflections in the glass, knew Sam was still looking at him, and could see him swallowing back his words before turning to Bobby. Dean turned as well, since their eyes were no longer on him.

"You tell me, Bobby." Sam replied as he flipped through various sheets of paper. "It's pretty obvious you've been doing this for a while, not just since my phone call. What made you decide to track these things?"

"Good old fashioned suspicion. These storms are packing quite a wallop. But the strange thing is, the ones that come here? Lots of wind and lightning."

Sam glanced up. "And that's suspicious how?"

Bobby looked at Sam, then at Dean. "No rain," he said pointedly.

Dean blinked. "Wait. What are you talking about?"

"I mean these storms aren't producing any rain."

"Sure they are! It just rained somewhere else and you caught the edge of it or something."

"Every single one? Even the weather bureau here says there's no rain from these things. Grey clouds, looks like a whole ocean's about to come down on your head, but it never happens."

"We were in one yesterday that had rain."

"Not really," Sam said. "Just enough to gloss things over, but no real rain to speak of."

"These storms are dry as a bone," Bobby added.

It opened possibilities Dean didn't even want to think about. He shook his head. "This is nuts."

"Any ideas?" Sam asked Bobby.

Bobby let out a deep breath. He removed his cap and scratched at his head, making twice in one day Dean had seen him without it, and that couldn't be a good sign. "I don't know. Could be nothing." His eyes found Sam's. "Could be everything."

Oh, for the – "Melodramatic much? You know what? I'm not listening to this." Dean set his bottle down, half empty. He felt Bobby's surprise, and Sam's eyes on him. Truth was, he was a bit surprised himself.

"Dean?" Sam ventured.

"No. I'm through with all this. It's just freakin' storms, Sam. It's the time of year for storms!" It was just storms. That's all.

He clomped across the hardwood floor into the den, and out onto the porch. Paced as he tried to control his breathing, tried to figure out just what had him so up in arms about the whole thing. He knew someone would come out after him, and that thought didn't provide the comfort he sought. But when Bobby grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, then held him there, well, he thought it would have been Sam.

"You wanna explain what's going on?" Bobby asked in a calm voice, though the tension he applied to Dean's shoulder showed he meant business.

Dean let himself sag back against a shell of a rusted old car, feeling the heated metal burn against his back. He hadn't even realized he'd crossed to the side of the house, that he'd tried to lose himself in the maze of metal that filled acres of property. "Not really." He kept his face carefully schooled, revealing nothing.

Bobby released him, looked at him, and started to turn away.

Dean felt something inside him clench. Something very like panic, like his last lifeline was walking away from him, and where the hell did that feeling come from? "Bobby. . ."

"You know something?" Bobby turned back. His ruddy face darkened with anger. "I care about you two. Hell knows why I should, but I do, and I've busted my ass to help you time and time again, so you'd think I deserve an answer! This doesn't affect just you, it affects everyone! But you're being so thick in the head that you think it all revolves around you. Thing is, when it does you won't even help yourself! I'm tried of playing this game with you, Dean!"

His accusations came out of left field, and left Dean reeling. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Sam! I'm talking about the very real possibility that these storms are the beginnings of something huge, something that Sam's been tracking, and you're not giving him the time of day. Hell, he deserves better than that! You both do!"

Dean was taken aback by Bobby's very real, very apparent anger. "Bobby, look, you're losing me here."

The anger melted away into a stubborn, pleading tone."He's trying to save you, Dean! You think he's been living in a hole these past three weeks? You think no one's talking, that everyone's just left you to your fate?"

Dean's mouth worked, but words refused him. Sam was. . .planning? This was a part of a plan? Everyone was talking – Sam was talking to them? Were they trying to save him? Who were _they_? A gambit of emotions pierced him. He settled again on panic, and stepped forward, grabbing the older man by the arms. "Bobby, listen to me. You can't let him do this. You have to stop him."

"Stop him what?"

"I'm not an idiot, Bobby! I know what he's doing. He wants to find that demon – the one I made the deal with. He wants to reverse this."

Bobby looked at Dean like he was crazy. "Well of course he does, Dean!" he exhaled in exasperation. "What did you expect?"

Okay. This wasn't happening. "Wait. You act like you're gonna let him – are you saying you're gonna let him do this? You're gonna just let him sacrifice himself or – or some other boneheaded idea?"

"Well, look who's talking!"

Those words hurt. Dean's panic fled, replaced by hot white rage, and he shoved Bobby away from him. "Fuck you! Who the hell do you think you are?"

Bobby looked at him sadly. "I'm your friend, Dean. I know you haven't had many of those, so don't look a gift horse in the mouth, huh?"

"You know what? You're all crazy." Dean turned away, and froze at the sight of Sam staring at him from the side of the house. There was such pain in that expression, such genuine confusion, and Dean turned only to find himself face to face with a similar expression from Bobby.

His breath seized in his chest. The skeletons of cars closed in around him. Something inside the house started ringing and Dean jumped, surprised that Bobby still had a land line phone. He used the distraction to back away, feeling defeated, suffocated, and lost himself in the maze. He faintly heard Sam call his name, and heard Bobby's curt reply cut him off.

The path through the cars led to a barbed wire fence that divided the salvage yard from a field. He carefully threaded himself through the lines and jogged, then ran. He ran as fast and as far as he could, into a growth of trees that enclosed him and shrouded him. For some reason he expected to hear Sam still calling his name, and that expectation drove him out farther, forcing his body to stay on the move, pushing past the drumming of his heartbeat, and then past the painful snatches of breath. He practically slammed into a tree to stop himself, wrapping his arms around it until he was certain his next breath would come without scorching his lungs, then let himself bend forward, sucking in air.

He had no idea how far he'd run, and at this rate he was doubtful that he'd make it back to Bobby's by nightfall. The sun had already dipped low in the sky when they arrived. Crap, it hadn't even been that long ago, and already he was messing things up. He wiped sweat from his brow, felt it trickle down his back. What the hell was wrong with him? Had he really just run away like a frightened, spoiled child?

Dean fell back against the rough bark of the tree, then sank to the damp ground, swallowing hard before resuming his heavy breathing. He ran away. He fucking ran away. _Hey, guess what, world! The Great Dean Winchester is a fucking bitch! In fact, he's scared shitless! _Dean raised his knees to his chest and crossed his arms over them. His eyes clenched tight, fighting to hold back the despair he never let show. He never realized the depth of it until that moment.

But that was just icing on the cake.

Lately, he felt something radiating off Sam, and it confused him. Never mind his own predicament, he was worried about his brother. He could sense it in their bickering, and he definitely saw it that night in the bar when Sam fought dirty and with everything he had – and then some. It was no surprise to Dean that Sam had that level of fight in him. He'd been trained by the best. But to see the venom that Sam suddenly spewed, that had scared him. To see the expression, or rather lack of, as Sam fought was an image he'd tried to erase from his mind, but couldn't. It wasn't normal. Not for Sam.

Dean had shot, stabbed, burned, strangled, drowned, and decapitated things both living and dead. None of that equaled the fear he felt when he saw Sam throw one open punch. Like something larger was moving through him.

_Are you certain that what you brought back is one hundred percent pure Sam? _

No.

Then what did he unleash?

His eyes opened, and his legs forced him up, pushing him farther away. Away from Sam's constant scrutiny. Away from Bobby's accusations. Away from everything, just for a little while. Just for a moment, god, he just needed a moment to get his head back on straight, then he could tackle whatever was thrown his way.

There was a hill, and he climbed it. It turned out to be steeper than he thought in the pending darkness, but he climbed it anyway, slipping and scratching his palms against the rocky ground, twinging his wrist. He cursed, and wondered if the hill was nature's own, or a stock pile of rubble left over from a bulldozer. It sure felt like one, like old discarded rock that the weeds had taken over. He finally crested the top and hunched over, catching his breath, then straightened and eyed the sight around him.

Behind him was the path he had taken, but Bobby's house and the field beyond it were nowhere in sight. To the west, clouds were tumbling over each other. There would be another storm. He watched as pink lightning darted across the sky in the distance, a forked tongue lapping away the light in favor of nighttime. He wondered if it was raining there. There were no streaks falling from the clouds, but then the sun had set, and the sky was rapidly growing darker so maybe he just couldn't see it. Heading back would probably be a good idea. But he didn't want to.

Instead he lay on his back on top of the hill, and waited for the sky to fall around him.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean heard his name. There was an element of tension in the voice that made him open his eyes and wonder where the danger was. He winced and raised himself on his elbows, then leaned over from the flattened top of the hill, blinking into a strange light from below blinded his eyes. He heard the same voice again, startled, and heard yet another voice, this one more distant. Sounds of scrabbling reached his ears, and by the time he had come to his senses and remembered where he was, he felt himself pushed over onto his back with a light blazing in his face, a large hand splayed on his chest, and a frantic, annoying buzz in his ear. "Dean! Crap, are you okay? What the hell happened?"

Dean lowered his defenses. Sam had almost found himself a quick trip back down the hill. "Dude, get that damn light outta my face!" He swatted at it, irritably.

"Is he up there?" Dean finally recognized the second voice as Bobby's.

"Yeah, he's here, he's. . ." Sam obviously realized that Dean hadn't answered his question, and looked more than ready to ask it again.

"I'm fine, Sam. I just – fell asleep." He sat up with Sam's help and a grunt, and wiped the small pebbles from his cheek. "What time is it?"

"It's almost two am! We've been looking for you for. . .God, Dean!" Sam shoved him away angrily and stood. "Did you think this was funny?"

"What? No! The hell are you talking about?" Dean regained his balance and continued to rub at his face. Give him a bed over nature any day. Lesson learned.

Apparently another lesson was in store for him as Sam looked off into the distance with a dejected laugh. "You know what? Just get up. I'm exhausted, and I'm pretty sure you'd rather have a bed than gravel. Of course, with you there's no telling." And Sam started down the hill, nothing more said, his light bobbing in front of him as he slid and skidded down the rocky slope.

Well. That concern didn't last long.

Dean sat for a moment, not sure he really wanted to go down that hill. He had no choice but to follow his brother. When he was met with a firm once over by Bobby, followed by 'the silent treatment', he knew he would dread the coming dawn. Neither man left his side, but no words were spoken, harsh or otherwise, as they marched back to the house. Bobby and Sam entered, Sam collapsing on the sofa and Bobby retiring to his room, but not before tossing a blanket and pillow at Dean. "Pallet," was all he said, and Dean obeyed silently, shoving aside some books in the corner and making himself a bed. There was a time when he could have shared the long sofa with Sam. This wasn't one of those times.

The air was hot and sticky. Dean removed his clothing, leaving on his underwear, and stretched out. On second thought, the grass covered rocks had been more comfortable than the thin blanket covering the hardwood floor. He shifted in annoyance. Soft snores soon filled the air, making Dean smile in spite of himself. Apparently the hike and tension really had worn Sammy out.

Dean stood softly and padded in bare feet over to his brother, who had been too tired to even remove his shoes. Dean took care of that and removed Sam's socks (which in his eyes just showed what a truly remarkable big brother he was), making sure Sam was comfortable. He even brushed the unruly hair back from his eyes, feeling for a moment like a child again. Those nights when he would consciously imitate their mom while soothing Sam, because otherwise he didn't know how to do it. Taking care of his baby brother who never could be bothered to get a haircut. The memory caught in his throat, and he returned to his blanket, no longer caring if the floor was hard. He honestly hadn't meant to scare Sam.

"Dean."

Dean froze, standing on the pallet.

"Get up here." The voice was slurred, but the tone was unmistakable. A thread of forgiveness, maybe. Maybe just the need to be close.

Dean felt worse. He hadn't thought that possible. "Too hot," he said in a low voice. But he did move his blanket closer, settling on the floor in front of the sofa, and let the sounds of the night lure him to sleep.

What woke Dean the next morning wasn't the warm brilliance of sunlight, or the sweet chirping of birds. It was a sudden painful pressure on his chest and a bruising on his side as Sam's other foot slipped. Dean's eyes flew open opposite startled curses, and he shoved at a size thirteen. "Get off!"

"What the – Dean?" Sleep-filled eyes squinted down at him. "What the hell are you doing down there?"

"Getting trampled on by your large-ass feet!" Dean slapped at Sam's ankle. Sam blinked, then lifted his left foot. Dean let his head fall back, making a big show of being able to breathe again.

Sam wedged his feet in between the small space between Dean's body and the sofa and leaned over him, elbows on knees. "I thought you went back to the other side of the room, what the hell are you doing down there?"

It was pretty stupid, in retrospect, laying down in that small spot between the sofa and scratched coffee table. But it had been cozy. "I forgot, the last thing you do in the morning is open your freakin' eyes. Next time try doing that before you stand up. You could've gone over the coffee table or something." It bothered Dean that Sam looked as though he was ready to sleepwalk. It bothered Dean that Bobby actually _had_ a coffee table to fall over. It also bothered him that there was a sweet smell of bacon coming from the kitchen, and he wasn't in there with it.

"You okay?" Sam's voice floated somewhere above him.

"Yeah, yeah." Dean waved him away and pushed himself up. He swayed for a moment, then looked for his discarded shirt. Sam was watching him, his heels now pulled up just underneath the cushion, his long limbs akimbo and making him look like an absurd tanned spider, coiled and ready to spring. The neckline and torso of his t-shirt was soaked through with sweat. Hot as hell, sure, but that didn't look heat induced. Dean gave up searching for his own t-shirt and pushed his legs through his jeans, his eyes not leaving his brother as Sam ran a hand through damp hair, plowing it up at odd angles that slowly limped back towards his face. "What about you? Looks like I should be asking you if you're okay, not the other way around."

"Huh?" Sam winced up at him through puffy eyes.

Dean gestured at Sam's wet shirt. "Take a look at yourself, Sammy. Not the classic definition of 'wet dream'."

"Huh?" Sam glanced down.

"Slept like crap, didn't you?" Dean spun, resuming his shirt search. "No visions last night? Nothing going bump in your head?"

"What? No! I told you, I don't have visions anymore."

"Yeah. Yet."

"The Demon is dead."

"Which is a good thing, and yet proves nothing."

"He was responsible for the visions."

"Yeah, whatever. Damn, where the hell is my shirt?" Dean grabbed his button-down and pulled it on, leaving it open. Felt strange, but there it was. He was too hungry to spare the time for a trip out to the car for his duffle. Besides, he hadn't showered yet.

The aroma of bacon and coffee lured the drowsy men into the kitchen. Bobby stood at an ancient stove that looked more like a scrap-iron museum piece than anything usable. The table was small and a definite throw-back to the fifties, reminding Dean of the diner the had visited the day before. The large cast-iron skillet held six slices of bacon. Three more sat on a paper towel, surrounded by suspicious-looking crumbs. There was a blue carton of eggs sitting out beside a gallon of milk. Dean craned his neck to try and see the sell-by date.

"Hold your horses," Bobby said, apparently misinterpreting the motion. "Coffee's in the pot, help yourselves."

"Had no idea you were so domesticated, Bobby," Sam teased, the aroma of food cracking his eyes open. They still looked puffy. Actually, Dean noticed, Sam looked like shit.

"A man's gotta eat." Bobby fished out the bacon with a fork and added more to the pan.

"Whoa, you cruising for a heart-attack there?" Dean asked at Bobby's shoulder as he reached for a mug.

"You're one to talk. Having BLT's for lunch. Got fresh big-boy tomatoes I need to use."

"How?"

"You see the garden out back?"

Dean halted mid-pour. "You're kidding me. You've got a garden? What'd you do, plant it in the trunk of a car?"

"It's small, but it's good enough. Got good tomatoes this year." Bobby ignored Dean's smirk and turned to Sam. "Sam, you make heads or tails of anything last night? You know, before your brother decided to take off into the hills?"

Here we go. Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to finish pouring his coffee. The lack of conversation behind him spoke volumes. Okay, so they weren't going to let this lie. "Fine. Don't burn a hole in my back with your damn eyes. You wanna talk, go on and get it out and over with. I'm gonna sit here and drink my coffee and eat my bacon, no, you know what? I'm gonna cook an egg first. So go ahead, 'cause I was just dying to start my day with a lecture from the two of you." He slammed his mug down on the counter and grabbed another for Sam.

"Too damn early for lecturing," Bobby said calmly. "I just wanna know what's going on in that head of yours."

"Nothing's going on."

"No comment," Sam quipped with a snort.

That got a glare before Bobby returned his attention to Dean. "It's not like you to just take off like that. That's just careless. You know better."

"Oh, I don't know, Bobby," Dean said as he poured coffee into Sam's mug. "Taking off seems to run in the family."

"Come on, Dean." Bobby growled in dismay.

He set the pot down heavily. "Look, I just wanted to think, okay? Alone. I mean it's hard enough getting time to myself to breathe, much less to figure things out!"

"Fine! You want to be alone?" Sam rose. "I can arrange that!"

Dean didn't have time to reply before Bobby exclaimed, "Sit down, the both of you!" He snatched the egg carton from beside Dean and pointed to a chair.

"You're like a freakin' mom," Dean muttered.

"Which is a good thing for you!" Bobby put the prepared bacon on a large platter and slammed it between them on the table. "Now. Shut up and eat. Maybe when your stomachs are full you'll talk like civilized people!"

Sam grabbed a piece of bacon and chewed, glaring silently at Dean.

Dean chewed back.

Bobby wasn't finished talking. He broke eggs into the smaller skillet. "Now here's my thinking. You two are in a hell of a fix, and you don't know how to get out of it. That's fine. What's not fine, is the fact that you two ain't working together to figure this out, and that I don't get." He turned. "Sam. Dean's your brother. Now think about this, really think. You'd do anything for him. Right?"

Dean stopped chewing as Sam looked at him and set his bacon on his napkin, subtly rubbing his hand on his jeans and sniffing self-consciously. Hazel eyes darted from Dean to Bobby. "Yeah. You know that," he responded softly.

"Does he?"

Sam looked at Dean. "I don't know."

For the love of – "Oh, come on, Sam." Dean sighed and flung his bacon back on the platter.

"Enough. Now, we've seen what Dean's willing to do. So I guess the burning question is this. Which one of you is more worth sacrificing?"

That question was a loaded gun fired into the air. Dean was pretty sure he had stopped breathing, and from the stricken look on Sam's face, it was obvious he felt the same. His eyes fell guiltily back to the bacon strip.

"I don't expect an answer," Bobby said after returning to his pan. "Truth is both of you put each other on a such a pedestal you're afraid of anything that'll knock one of you off. That's good, I mean I wish I had that kind of loyalty with someone. But that's your weakness. Willing to do anything for the other, I mean. It limits your options."

"Bobby, what are you talking about?" Sam asked softly.

Bobby faced them, holding two plates of eggs. "John jumped in the pit for Dean. Dean's ready to jump in the pit for you. You think the only way to resolve this is to jump in the pit for him? I'm saying if you set your emotions aside in this...there may be another way out. _Without_ you throwing yourself in the pit for him. There's always a third option, if you open your eyes and look for it." He set the plates in front of the boys and turned back for his. "This ain't easy, and I'm not gonna pretend like it is. Just stop being so scared of each other, will ya?"

Dean let himself look at Sam. Really look at him. At the fatigue in his face, the lines around his mouth that shouldn't be there, especially in someone so young. He wasn't supposed to know. But he did, and there was no going back. When Sam first said he had to save Dean, Dean had merely smiled and nodded, still feeling the euphoria of their survival and the Demon's death, and to tell the truth he hadn't taken the promise very seriously. But he had been touched that Sam was willing to put everything on the line for him. It led to an understanding that he never thought he'd have with Sam, and he could see that understanding mirrored in Sam's eyes as they stared back. The scrutiny was uncomfortable, and Dean picked at his bacon.

"Right." Bobby nodded. "Now pass that platter to an old man, huh?"

"Like you haven't been munching from it already?" Dean pointed to the bacon crumbs on the plate.

Bobby ignored him. "I have a friend who's into all sorts of weather stuff." The change of subject was jolting. "Local researcher. Get a lot of good info from him."

Sam resumed eating slowly, letting the conversation shift to the job. "Does he knows what you do?"

"He knows I'm surrounded by large, sharp metal objects. So when storms are coming, he tells me."

"You mean you can't figure that out by looking out a window?" Dean backed down from Bobby's glare, holding his hands up in defense, a strip of bacon pointing to the peeled ceiling.

"Look, smartass, do you want help or not?"

Dean's mouth quirked at the more familiar, and comfortable, territory. "So where do we find this friend of yours?"

"Works at the weather office in Rapid City. And he's expecting you, so eat up."

Sam's brows rose. "You've already arranged this?"

"What'd you think those phone calls were yesterday?" He leaned on his elbows. "You two are grad students from the University of Oklahoma. You're studying these unusual weather patterns and have stopped by to visit your old Uncle Bobby. You've heard me talk about Tyler and would like to meet him." His brows drew together. "Oh, wait, hang on," he muttered and rose, wiping his hands on his shirt, and disappeared into the side room, returning with a large textbook that he slapped against Sam's chest. "I suggest you do some reading up on your way over there."

Sam glanced the thunderstorm illustration on the cover, and flipped to the title page. He looked up at Bobby underneath raised brows. "Bobby, this book was published in nineteen eighty-six."

"And?"

"Don't you think it might be a little outdated?"

"So, what is there to know? Rain still forms the same way, don't it?" He crunched on his bacon while stabbing the yolk of his egg.

Sam smiled.

Dean just shrugged at him, and sipped his coffee.

******************************

Meteorologist Tyler Johnson was a stocky man with an athletic build. It was obvious that he had taken care of himself, and for some reason let his activity slide. A small roll of fat just peeked over his belt, pulling at a tight t-shirt. His arms were muscular. His neck was thick. His manner towards the boys was kind, yet a touch impatient, like he had something he really needed to get back to. With all the weather activity, it was no wonder.

"I used to work in the weather station at KTTW." He lead the brothers down a thin white hallway and into a small room. "More behind-the-scenes than anything. I was out in the field, not on tv much unless I had to be. Not comfortable with it. Came from California and spent several years down at the Severe Storms Lab in Norman, but had to move here to Rapid City to take care of my mom. She passed, I stayed, and ended up in here." He shoved open a second door, and walked into a tiny room.

"Well. That's gratification for ya." Dean winced.

The room was roughly the same size as a generous utility closet, and about as dark. The glow from computer screens colored the walls a sickly grey-blue. Tiny red lights flashed on small panels, and there were three telephones on three separate desks. Weather charts lined what little wall space was available. A large screen in the corner showed a map of the US, looking like a sonar feedback loop and covered with symbols and arrows Dean didn't understand.

Tyler sat in a swivel chair and gestured for Sam and Dean to take the two remaining seats. "Three people work back here. The other two are at lunch." He smiled. His teeth glowed in the strange light. "Gets a bit close in here, but we all get along, so it could be worse."

"Dude. I'd be climbing the walls," Sam said as he sat. "I've seen dorms less claustrophobic than this."

"Better believe it. I miss being in the field. You'd think with all the unusual activity going on I'd be out in the research vans, but no."

"Why not?" Sam asked.

Tyler huffed. "Politics."

"In weather forecasting?" Dean asked with a raised eyebrow.

"There's politics in everything. Gotta learn that if you're getting into the field." He leaned back in his chair. "So. You're researching these recent storms, huh? What's your theory?"

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it and looked at Sam, who snapped to attention and licked his upper lip. "We, uh, we're working on that."

Tyler nodded, looking at them intently. "What's your take on the low pressure readings? High energy fields? Lack of wind sheer in the tornadic supercells?"

"Well. It's, uh, it's. . .unusual." Sam gave a small smile.

"That book not helping ya there, Sammy?" Dean muttered.

"Not really."

It was painfully obvious Tyler Johnson was no fool. "You're not studying this phenomena at all, are you? I can see the way you're looking at these computers. You have no clue what's in front of you." He shook his head lightly and smiled in disbelief.

Terrific. Dean knew this would be a long shot, some things just couldn't be bull-shitted. Like science to a scientist. For all he knew the man co-authored the book Sam had scrutinized in the car. He sighed and laced his fingers together. "Listen, Mr. Johnson. . ."

"If this is going to turn into a confessional, you better call me Tyler."

Dean merely blinked. "Okay. Tyler. Truth is, we don't know what's causing these storms. That's what we're here to find out. Bobby," he paused as Sam darted him a look, "U-Uncle Bobby, said you could help us."

"Just passing curiosity?"

"Let's just say in our business we need to know things like this."

"Hm. Secretive. 'Bout like your uncle, he doesn't talk much either. Not about himself, anyway." Tyler swivelled to face the screen in front of him. "Well, not like this is top secret government stuff, so whatever. Layman's terms: The atmosphere has been 'super-charged' lately, which accounts for the electrical storms." His brows rose as he regarded them.

"That's succinct," Dean replied. "Non-layman's terms?"

Tyler smiled. "Listen, just who are you people?"

"Specialists." Dean cocked a smile.

Tyler looked for a moment like he trying to figure the most polite way to kick them out. It was apparent his friendship with Bobby was overriding his desire to do just that. "Good thing for you I have my favorite meal coming for lunch, or I might not put up with your blasted shenanigans. Not to mention being bored out of my skull in this room." He studied them for a moment more, then sighed. "Oh, well. At least I have a captive audience, better than those kids I lecture to on the weekends."

"You teach?" Dean asked him.

"If you can call it that. Those kids wouldn't know a bolt of lightning if it went up their ass. They'd just call it, uh, extreme gastrointestinal discomfort, or some such nonsense."

"Pre-meds?" Sam asked knowingly.

"Bingo. Elective course for their Earth Science requirement, or something."

Dean smirked at Sam as he grinned and hung his head down to disguise a laugh. "So, what about these storms?" Sam pressed, looking up again. "The ones you've shown special interest in."

Tyler looked at him, askance. "Exactly what has Bobby told you?"

"Not as much as you think. Are there any theories flying around on why the atmosphere is 'super-charged'?"

Tyler huffed in dismay. "Would you believe people are spouting out the global warming theory? Now sure, I can see that making the atmosphere more unstable over a period of time. But not like this. Not this quickly. This change has been coming for a few weeks now. If global warming is a factor, and it could be a _factor_, not the cause, then any noticeable change would take place over several years time."

"Pretty obvious you don't go for that," Dean said. "So, what do _you_ think it is?"

Tyler shook his head thoughtfully. "Honestly? I don't know. I've stayed awake at night trying to figure this out. My colleagues think I'm nuts, say I'm being the black sheep again for not jumping on the global warming bandwagon. But I'll tell you this. I want to know where all this extra energy is coming from. It's throwing things off balance. Storms are supposed to be the planet's way of trying to restore that balance."

Dean blinked. "Well. That sounds disturbingly zen."

"If storms are forming to this degree of intensity, then something is seriously out of whack. And that's not all." Tyler exhaled heavily though his nose. His attention suddenly spread over the room like he was afraid someone was going to walk in. "Look, you weren't up front with me when you came in here, but I have to ask, because I bet you think there's more going on here too, and to be truthful I'm damn well desperate for someone to talk to." His gaze pierced them. "Can I trust you two?"

It surprised them. "Of course." Sam leaned in as well.

Tyler paused for a moment, then continued in a low voice. "Something happened in Wyoming a few weeks ago. Some sort of – energy burst, I guess. I don't know how else to describe it. But I saw it. Everyone did. They dismissed it as a glitch in the system. Hell, I did too, until all these storms started popping up."

Dean had the presence of mind not to look uncomfortable, and was glad to see Sam maintain his composure as well. "A glitch in what system?" Sam asked.

Tyler smiled slightly. "There's a new mobile Doppler radar on the market. It's being distributed through South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas, and Wyoming. Everyone's had them on the trucks, testing them out. That's why they thought it was a glitch in the system. The readings don't concur with 'the norm'. " He finger-quoted the last two words.

Dean perked. "Wait, you talking about those huge cylinder-looking things with the flat dish on top?"

"Yeah, that's it."

Dean grinned and popped Sam with the back of his hand. "Dude, we saw those in Kansas! You remember those trucks that drove by us in Kansas? That was sweet!"

The corner of Tyler's mouth quirked. "You're definitely not from the university. Anyway, several radars picked up the energy output. They were returned and re-calibrated. Pissed me off, really."

"Why?"

"Because those were the only instruments that had any records of the readings from the energy burst."

Sam had a look on his face that showed his mental wheels were turning. "Can I see on your computer where you've been tracking these storms?"

Tyler shrugged. "Sure," he said, and punched a few keys, pulling up a flowing weather chart. "Over the past three days they seem to be originating near the Wyoming/Colorado border. They spread outwards, some going straight east, others shifting slightly more to the north or south. But there is no real system allowing for these storms to form. The spring was cooler than usual. It took a while just to get moisture in the atmosphere, which is needed to form thunderstorms."

"And yet it isn't raining," Sam said.

Tyler shook his head, talking around his fingers that propped thoughtfully against his lips as he studied the screen. "Not much, no. There have been some reports of precipitation, but nothing significant, and certainly not for density level these clouds are showing. Should be raining cows and bulls rather than just randomly spitting at us." He pointed to a series of circles that snaked across the US. "The jet stream's pretty weak. Still capable of producing storms, but again, I don't think it would produce anything of this magnitude."

"And no one else agrees that this is odd?" Sam was studying the weather map like he understood it. For all Dean knew, he did. There was no telling what Sam learned in college, which was why Dean was happy to let him field the questions.

"Pfft. Global warming. Air instability. Those are the easiest explanation with the least amount of work."

Dean blinked at the monitor. "So, you have all this energy, and no explanation for it."

Tyler sighed in frustration. "I was hoping it would just blow itself out. Instead, it seems to be increasing in strength."

"And what do they say about _that_?" Sam asked.

Tyler shrugged. "Not much there either, just keeping an eye on it. If it gets worse, they'll look into it."

Sam sent Dean a crass look as Dean's earlier words were echoed back at him. Dean had the dignity to wince and pull away, letting Sam continue to fuel the conversation. "So this thing in Wyoming. Any idea what it was?"

Oh, brave move, Sasquatch. Dean leaned forward slightly.

"Nope," Tyler responded, and Dean felt able to breath again. "But I'll tell you this." His voice lowered. "I've never seen anything like it. I mean, the level of energy that was released is phenomenal – and you can almost pinpoint it to within a square mile. Been tempted to go check the place out, see what I can find."

Shit. Warning, Will Robinson. "Uh, you really don't want to do that." Dean said.

"Sure, I do." Tyler sounded puzzled. "I've already arranged for the time off to go out there."

"No, you're not hearing me." Dean leaned forward, fixing Tyler with intense eyes. "Don't go there."

Tyler leaned his elbow on the desk, and asked stubbornly, "Why?"

Damn all scientist and their damned scientific curiosity. "We can't tell you."

"Of course not." Tyler flung his hands into the air.

Okay, dangerous territory imminent. Dean nudged Sam's arm. "Look, we have to get going," he said to Tyler, "and it's obvious you've got your hands full. Thanks for your time." His chair squeaked as he stood. He held out his hand for the other man to shake.

"Wait, wait, wait." Tyler stood with him, his face tense with anxiety. "You know what this is, don't you? You know what this energy is. You know what's causing these storms."

Dean smiled, his hand still extended. "We're not meteorologists."

"Son, that fact is painfully obvious." Tyler shook his hand, then held it tightly. "Tell me what it is."

Dean smirked, then smiled as he pulled away and turned to compose himself. When he turned back, his face was schooled, but sympathetic. "We can't."

"Why not? Some official top government thing? You guys experimenting again? You're gonna blow up the damn planet!"

"No," Dean said. Sam sent him a look that plainly said, _If we're leaving, let's go,_ and Dean was in agreement. One word stopped him.

"Doppler."

"Excuse me?"

"I've got the Doppler. I've got the radars. You want to track these things? You'll need a truck."

Dean smirked. "I think we'll just follow the lightning, thanks."

"It'll just lead you in circles. You need to find the source, and for that you'll need a truck." Tyler sighed, his hands on his hips. He studied the floor for a moment, then looked up at them. "Look. This energy damn well came from somewhere, it didn't just magically create itself." And as the brothers gave apologetic smile and opened the door, he said, "Just tell me this. Is there a way to dissipate this energy and stop these storms?"

Dean felt Sam's hand on his arm as Tyler's tone made him pause. "Why?"

"Why? I'll tell you why. No rain." He jabbed a finger toward the forecast models. "These things are building up so much power and moisture that once they do pop? Noah's flood'll look like a puddle of spit. We're talking the Mississippi flooding its banks so fast the Plains will look like Atlantis."

Dean hesitated. Sam suddenly looked concerned, and was watching Dean, waiting for his next move.

Dean was in two minds. He could see the earnest expression of a man who wanted to help, who believed he could help, who obviously felt he _needed_ to help. On the other hand. . ."We'll let you know," he said decisively, and left Tyler standing in the center of the converted closet.

The brothers exited the building into a blast of heat and sun. Dean winced at the sudden change and snatched his sunglasses from the collar of his shirt. More fuel for storms. Great. He put on the glasses as Sam bumped his elbow. "He's right, you know."

"I know."

"Dude, you were so playing him."

"Shhh. He might have spies, or radar cameras or something out here."

Sam's grin threatened to split his face. "Speaking of which, I also think maybe you were right about needing to get our hands on that equipment," he teased. "It couldn't hurt."

"You kidding?" Dean felt a laugh bubble up from nowhere. "He's got the biggest freakin' EMF detectors in the states! We're definitely gonna need a few of those!"

***********************

The trip back to Bobby's place was silent. Sam kept casting looks at Dean, which he was pointedly ignoring. For his part, Dean was thinking about Tyler. The guy seemed nice enough, and it was true that they could use those radars. What's more, it would be pretty damn cool to go screeching over the streets with all that equipment, launching into the storms. He had to imagine the adrenaline rush would be about the same. And he loved storms. He loved standing in awe of the massive energy that had nothing to do with the supernatural. The earth's own power, summed up in an area of a few square miles. While his interest would never get him to school, it was enough to keep one eye upwards while cruising the heartland.

Bobby met them on the porch, towel in hand. "You boys find out anything?" His shirt was covered with grease.

Dean winced at him as he shut the driver's side door with a loud squeak. "Damn Bobby, one of your brood try to eat you?"

Bobby just winced back at him. "We've gotta do something about those doors. Come see this." He cocked his head and led the brothers inside, where he pointed to his map before heading to the kitchen. "Just made a few more marks," he called out. There was a rattle of dishes.

"God, I hope that's lunch I hear." Dean took off his sunglasses and frowned at the map, then sat in the chair at the desk.

Sam peered over his shoulder. "There's a storm off the coast of Maryland. One off the coast of Hawaii, both with the same characteristics." He straightened and planted his hands on his hips, giving his head an almost imperceptible shake. "Dean, these things are spreading."

"I can see that, Sam." Dean sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. "Hey Bobby, these storms like the others?" he called out.

"All lightning, no rain," Bobby called back. A moment later he emerged, sans towel. "What'd Tyler tell you?"

"He knows about the Hellgate." He noticed Bobby's shocked expression. "I mean, he doesn't know it was a gate to hell, but he registered the energy from it when it opened." Dean sat back, threading his fingers behind his head. "And he's got some sweet equipment."

"_And_ he's planning on going to Wyoming," Sam added.

Bobby shook his head quickly. "He can't do that."

"We know."

"Well, stop him!"

Dean stood. "How? 'Hey Tyler, the Hellmouth is down there and Buffy ain't, so don't touch?'" He looked over Bobby's shoulder into the kitchen. "What, no lunch?"

Bobby gave him his patented look of disbelief. "Do I look like a B&B to you?"

"BLT's, man! I thought. . ."

"Damn squirrel came in through the kitchen window and took the rest of the bacon."

"Uh-huh." Dean looked Bobby up and down. "Damn big squirrel."

"There's a great barbecue joint down the road there. Bring me back a sandwich. And while you're at it, figure out how to keep Tyler away from Wyoming, huh?" He walked back into the kitchen.

Dean looked at Sam in disbelief. "I really wanted a BLT," he said calmly, and patted his back pocket where his wallet lived. After waiting the moment or two that proved Dean himself was buying the meal, and not Bobby, he sighed and headed out to his car.

And about fifty miles away, the energy spiked, and found its next target.


	5. Chapter 5

Tyler Johnson was no fool.

He studied the screen long after the young men left. Pulled up a few weather charts from several weeks back. Shook his head and leaned back in his chair, pulling at his lips in thought. He stood and went to the john, poked his head outside the research center as he was wont to do, then returned to his cell.

Sharice was there. She set a white paper bag on her desk, and looked at Tyler. "Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh, what?"

Sharice grinned, her cheeks flushing. "You're thinking again."

"You're going to criticize me for a thought process?"

"I'm going to criticize you for thinking at all. This is supposed to be your break."

"What time is it?"

"One forty-three."

"Precise aren't you?"

"You asked." She shrugged and pulled a burger wrapped in paper out of the bag. "Your heart-attack on a bun." The burger fell with a heavy plop from her hand, landing in front of Tyler.

"Guess you got the fruit as usual." Tyler unwrapped his meal.

"Nope. Chicken sandwich, large fries and a milkshake. Don't ask, you really don't want to go there."

"Noted." He bit into the burger and leaned back, bouncing the back of his seat slightly. "Had two visitors in here while you were gone. Interested in those thunderstorms we're tracking."

"You mean _you're_ tracking."

Tyler pulled at her with an invisible line. "I will turn you to the dark side, my dear," he intoned deeply.

"Screw you."

"Throw down on that milkshake and take some damn Advil already. Jesus." Tyler shook his head and returned to the screen.

"When you headed out there?" She spoke around her straw as she dug one-handed in her purse for the pill bottle.

"Tomorrow."

"Leaving us in a lurch as usual."

"That's crap. You've got all this covered."

Sharice popped open the lid with her thumb and shook two pills onto the desk top. "Just that Roy is coming in late tomorrow."

"You're kidding. Since when?"

"Dunno. Got a call a few minutes ago. Said he'd be late, not in until noon or so. Sure would be nice if you at least waited a day to abandon us."

Tyler sighed and snatched up his drink, violently shoving his straw through the plastic opening. At least she got him a super-sized. "Figures. Been trying to get out there for a week, and he knows it. Dammit, he knows it! Why is he thwarting me?"

Sharice raised a carefully-shaped brow. "Thwarting?"

"Yeah, it means to purposefully be an ass and get in my way."

"I'm not illiterate. Just scares me when you use archaic words like that."

"I like to read."

"You like to think you're educated beyond the norm."

"I _am_ educated beyond the norm."

"Right. Which is why you're stuck here in the back room with us." Her expression offered no apology, and Tyler wasn't expecting it. He just sighed and turned back to his work.

"Fine. I'm leaving at one o'clock tomorrow. That's twenty-four hours from now. Roy better have his ass here."

"Tell him, not me." Sharice turned back to her station, thus ending the conversation.

Tyler bit into his burger and chewed in annoyance. And he'd been looking forward to this meal. Ever since his heart-attack, the staff had been on him to eat more healthy foods, saying that it wasn't normal for a thirty-nine year old man to have a blocked artery. He stated blithely that heart disease ran in his family, that he already gave up smoking, that dammit, he needed a vice. That ill-planned argument resulted in one bi-weekly burger for lunch for the past eight months. Dammit, in all that time he'd only had a twinge, once when he was out on a call. Wasn't his heart's fault, the day was exceptionally hot, as it was supposed to be in the summertime. But he was pulled from mobile research and shoved in a hole with impersonal computers, despite his protestations that he was fine. Despite that he was over qualified for what they wanted. He wasn't gonna die on the job, that was preposterous.

Now he was relegated to a burger for lunch every two-weeks, and under the watchful eye of Mother Sharice.

She wasn't remotely nun-like. Hell, she wasn't even as straight-laced as she pretended to be. He knew this because he once caught her in the office alone with one of those racy novels found not in the Barnes and Noble romance section, but that other section altogether (not that he knew what was in that other section, right?) She drank on the weekends with her friends and went to strip clubs. He preferred to think of it as a healthy preoccupation for someone in her mid-twenties, but her steady lack of boyfriends made him worry. But they didn't make it a habit to discuss their personal lives. Their conversations were more like, "went out, had a blast, what's the NEXRAD say?"

He bit into the burger again, savoring the grease, making sure to give a grunt of pleasure just to piss Sharice off.

And Roy, damn him. He already had today off. What the hell did he think he was doing? The young man had too much ambition for his own good, and a great way to sabotage it. _I've got to get in with an older crowd_, he thought sullenly. His mood was rapidly going downhill. Bad enough this young lady who was just barely more than ten years younger than him was treating him like he was sixty.

"Alert update," Sharice said from her chair. Tyler swivelled to look at the screen and hit print.

Five counties under severe thunderstorm warnings. Twelve under the growing watch area.

He sighed and glanced behind him. Sharice was busy, so he leaned to the computer to his left, and silently pulled up the screen he had been reading before his visitors showed.

"_Fluctuations of short periods in the atmosphere's electric field were studied through the measurements of electric field and space charge density on the Mid-Pacific Ocean. The amplitude of fluctuation is about one third of the mean electric field, and the period mainly ranges from 2 to 5 min. The fluctuations are considered to be under the influence of spatial and temporal variation of space charge layer that possibly originates from the electrode effect above the sea surface. The unit of electrical irregularities in the atmosphere above the ocean has horizontal scale of the order of 1.5 km and indicates a tendency to become large as the wind speed increases. The vertical scale of space charge layer is estimated at several tens meters."_

Pfft. Not helpful in the least.

He skimmed data on tidal fluctuations, but the results were more effect than cause. No seismic activity, which was good, but explained nothing about the release of energy. His brows raised as he continued his search.

"_Scientists at Oxford University have discovered that small-scale fluctuations, which are wide-spread in the atmosphere, may have a greater impact on weather systems than previously thought. The results, published in Nonlinear Processes in Geophysics, may have important implications for accurate weather forecasting._

_The fluctuations, known as inertia-gravity waves because they are sustained by a combination of inertial and gravitational forces, are prominent in the bottom 15 km of the atmosphere._

_They can often be seen from the surface of the Earth as 'stripy' features in clouds. Their horizontal wavelengths can be as short as 5 km – too small to be picked up by current weather prediction models, which divide the surface of the Earth into grid-boxes measuring around 50 km by 50 km._

_Meteorologists have therefore always had to assume that inertia-gravity waves do not significantly interact with weather systems, such as warm and cold fronts, but this assumption had never been rigorously tested._

_Motivated by the results of laboratory experiments, which seemed to challenge the meteorologists' assumption, the Oxford scientists developed a computer model of a simple fluid system resembling the atmosphere. They represented the inertia-gravity waves as random noise in the model, since the fluctuations can be highly irregular, chaotic and transient. They found that the system could behave differently when the inertia-gravity wave representation was activated – in other words, the meteorologists' assumptions were not always justified."_

This was old news to him, and well could explain why some dopplers picked up the energy, and others didn't. But again, it didn't help explain where the energy came from. For it to show up in the atmosphere, it had to of come from somewhere. Simple thermodynamics. All this was doing, was saying the forecasting could be faulty. Well hell, he knew that. And truth be told, he was about ready to give up and pass it off as a glitch himself.

Except for those boys showing up.

He kept searching. No unusual solar activity. No unusual amounts of radiation, no solar flares, no collisions with falling rocks, nothing. Nothing for the past few weeks, and nothing showing now.

Tyler took another angry chomp of his burger. At this rate, he really would give himself another coronary. Behind him, Sharice continued to work.

Okay, so if nothing was happening upstairs – no seismic activity below – Tyler paused, mid-chew. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before, but then he had been pretty busy with the new dopplers and such. His heart bumped, and seemed to freeze as he contemplated the possibility. He pulled up a new screen, and typed in a search. "Geothermal activity." And he read.

And he winced.

He knew geothermal activity was responsible for providing harnessed heat and electricity in places like Iceland. He knew geysers were evidence of hotspots in the earth. He was no vulcanologist, but he knew about the caldera. He knew Yellowstone was basically a supervolcano that had yet to erupt. But there was no unusual activity in the park itself, and definitely nothing that would cause a climatic change to this degree.

He wasn't just missing square one. From where he was, he couldn't even see the tile.

Frustrated, Tyler returned to his chart where he'd been tracking the storms over the past week, right as Sharice spun in her chair. "Tornado warning," she said urgently, absently setting her fries aside, nearly spilling them onto the floor.

"Crap." Tyler jumped up. "Confirmation?"

"Visual." Sharice was already on the phone.

Tyler crumpled the wrapper around what was left of his burger, and tossed it in the can on the way out to the weather center.

The weather center was bustling with the few meteorologist on staff, which in events like this, consisted of four, and that was generous. Sharice would stay in the back, feeding out information as necessary. Tyler hurried over to the printout and studied the warning, looked at the screen, and jabbed a finger toward the intern. "Get Matt on the phone, make sure he's seeing this. Do the stations have the bulletin?"

"Yes sir."

"Double check. Some of these places can't hear the sirens, make sure Civil Defense notifies the police to get people out of there." The tornado was bearing down on Manfred, a place too small to be considered a town, more like a vague thought of a community. But it was a community with people in rickety old homes and trailers, people who couldn't afford to have their places insured and were about to lose them. It was times like this when he wanted to just grab a phone book and start calling people himself, telling them to clear out.

"Got Matt on the phone," the intern called out as he left.

Tyler jerked the phone to his ear. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Storm is heading north-northeast, tornado is tracking east. No idea, but there's a clear hook, looks like a big one. We got chasers in the area? I'll see if I can get Marshall, he lives near there. Probably already on the road. No, I didn't know they weren't under the watch area, but with the way these things are forming lately there's no good way to track them. Hang on, I've got another call." He clicked the line over. "Go."

"Tyler? Are you busy?"

"Bobby Singer? That you? You got your radio on?"

"No."

"Turn it on and that'll answer your question. I'll call back." He clicked back over to the tv station, but the line was gone. Probably on the air with the warning.

He blew out his cheeks and leaned over the computer model, pulling up various readings, darting around the intern who had rushed back in and was on his cell. Crap, Tyler couldn't even remember the guy's name. Not like he worked with him, he was usually in the back. Speaking of which, where was Bill?

At that moment a heavy-set black man entered, styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and a printout in the other. "Damn old school bull-shit," he muttered in a slow drawl. "Living in fucking tornado alley and this is the crap they give us." He flung the sheet in front of Tyler. "Whatcha make of this?"

Tyler winced at the tiny symbols and numbers, then reached in his pocket for the glasses he generally refused to wear, on principle. The graph came into focus. "Looks like – what the hell is that?" He pointed to a large red circle near Devils Tower, Wyoming.

"That's where this storm came from. Now look at this." Bill slapped another printout onto the first one.

Tyler studied it as another warning beeped in behind him. He heard Bill say, "Tornado Warning for Jones County," but for the most part the words floated over him. He stared at the chart, confused. Activity picked up around him, and he forced his mind back to his work.

"Jones? Dammit, Marshall!" He pulled out his personal cell phone and speed-dialed. "Marshall? You hear me? Yeah, it's Tyler, what are you – where are you? Hang on, can you call the center?" He hung up as the intern joined him.

"What's your name again, son?"

"John Mayfield."

"John. A call's gonna come through on that line." He pointed. "Put it on speaker. Got it?"

"Yes sir."

Tyler took a moment to rush back to Sharice. "Whatcha got?"

"Storms popping up all over the damn place." She was no longer sitting. Printouts snaked over the floor, the multiple screens were a flurry of activity.

"We may need you out here. And see if you can get Roy, this is insane!"

He rushed back into the nerve center of the building to hear a tinny voice calling his name. "Marshall?" he called out. "I'm here, what's going on out there?"

"Looking at two different funnels, bout half a mile apart," a voice replied through faint static. "F3 maybe, one an F2, but the winds speeds are picking up. Heading dead for Grovebrook. Sirens are going best I can tell, I can see cars on the road."

"Tell me they're not driving toward that thing!"

"Naw. Think they're gonna pick up the wave and head south." The wave was a peculiar, curvy road that joined Grovebrook's main street with the county road that led to the highway.

"What's the current windspeed?"

"Best I can tell, about one fifty. You got trucks out?"

"Everything should be deployed. Don't know yet where they are. You heard from Roy?"

"Wasn't he in Andover?"

"Better not be!"

"Thought he was heading to Andover."

It would explain his need for a day and a half absence. "I can't get him on his cell."

"Probably put himself on a chase. Damn. . .that lightning's rough."

"How close are you?"

"'Bout a mile and a half from one of the funnels." There was a hesitation. "Tyler, it's targeting Grovebrook, I mean dead on."

"Got it, stay with me a moment." Tyler signaled for Bill. "Get Matt back on the line," he said urgently, feeling John tap his shoulder. The intern was staring at the radar, and his face was white.

Tyler looked around, and froze. "What in God's name did we do to deserve this?"

Storms were everywhere.

And in that small room, all hell broke loose.

****

Dean blew in with the wind, holding bags of food. "What is it with these storms and my stomach?" he asked in annoyance as Sam quickly rose behind him and slammed the door shut.

"Bobby says we're in trouble," he said, quickly taking the bags from Dean and setting them down before steering him into the kitchen, where Bobby stood in front of a small radio.

Dean winced. "Ever heard of a television?"

"You wanna go up in this weather and hold the antenna?"

"No."

"Damn things are popping up everywhere. There's been warnings all over the place, and we're one of them. What's it like out there?" Bobby looked over his shoulder at Dean.

"It's really dark a few miles down the road."

"How dark?"

"I'd say. . .somewhere between really dark and _damn_ _it's dark_."

"Dammit." Bobby started opening drawers. "I got a shelter in the back."

Dean sighed. "We're running? Again?"

Sam was looking outside nervously. "Is the shelter underground?"

"Of course."

"Ever think what might happen if one of these cars landed on it?"

"Sure. We'd be stuck." Bobby spun and thrust a flashlight into Dean's hands.

"That's not reassuring, Bobby," Sam said to the older man's back.

Bobby turned, nose to nose with Sam. Or as close as he could get. "You wanna stay in here and see what happens when a car lands on a house?"

Sam's lips tightened, and he snatched the other flashlight from Bobby's hand.

"You've had tornadoes here before, right Bobby?" Dean asked, looking out of the front window.

"Not really. Why?"

Dean said nothing, just continued to stare outside.

He was quickly joined by Sam and Bobby. And the view terrified them.

_******************************_

"This is insane, this is insane," Tyler muttered as he studied the national radar. Storms were popping up all over the Midwest, and it seemed all at the same time. "What the hell?"

Even Bill was momentarily dumbfounded, and he'd worked for the National Weather Service for damned near forty years.

Tyler turned to Sharice. Her dark skin looked disturbingly pale as she handed a sheet of paper to him. "Manfred," she said softly, and turned away.

Bill and John looked over Tyler's shoulder as he read, "Multiple casualties, town unrecognizable, emergency aid can't get through." He let the sheet drop. John reached down and picked it up.

More warning were sounding, filling the room with constant alerts and long electronic beeps. Tyler refocused as he settled into a chair, picked up one phone, flipped his cell open and propped it on his other shoulder, then keyed up a chat room reserved for emergencies. Personnel who worked behind the scenes in various stations and outposts across the plains were typing as fast as the system would let them. Manfred looked to be practically demolished, according to reports, and the twister was still on the ground heading for. . . "Oh shit."

Tyler quickly punched speed dial on his cell. "Bobby? Can you hear me? It's heading for you, you got that? It's heading right for you!"

********************************

Bobby flipped open his cell, listened, and said one word. "Bye." And he grabbed the brothers by their shoulders, pulling them away from the front window right as a hubcap crashed in.

Sam yelled out as they hit the deck. Another hubcap flew in, clanging loudly against the far wall. "We gotta talk about your sense of decor, Bobby!" he exclaimed.

"Yeah, later!" Bobby yelled back. The noise was growing. The violent wind was constant, thunder threatened to rock the house to its foundation. And in the distance was a lower rumble, one that didn't go away.

"Mother of God. . .go! Now!"

The three of them ran in a crouch through the house and out the back door. Bobby pointed to what looked like a cement roof stuck in the ground, off in the distance. "Go on, I gotta get the flashlights!"

"No time!" Dean shoved at him, practically spilling him down the back stairs. He pulled Sam in front of him by his shirt, and kept a tight grip on the material as they fought to run against the wind, arms flung up to protect their heads.

The wind suddenly shifted behind them, and rather than running into it, Sam and Dean felt themselves knocked to the ground by the blast. Dean's wrist twinged, but he ignored it. Sam had cried out, then clamped down, and Dean didn't know if it was from surprise or pain.

He never felt such wind. It ripped and tore at him, whipping up his shirt, kicking dirt into his eyes and tossing debris over his head. More debris battered his body. He couldn't see, shit, he couldn't breathe against the pressure. He felt a motion to his side, felt Sam try to move away from him.

A vivid picture assailed him: of his brother being sucked into the funnel, lost to him, his broken body to be found days later miles away. Dean yelled out as best he could and crawled onto Sam's back, forcing him against the ground, protecting him with his body. He felt Sam growl angrily in response. Bobby called for him, but he didn't want to move. Not until the grit cleared, and he could see where the hell he was going. Not until he was certain he could suck in enough breath to get him there.

Then in a flash, everything froze. The wind ceased and dropped the debris flat to the ground. Dean felt a sudden pin-prick along his back, focusing between his shoulder blades. He blinked slowly, then even more slowly, almost timidly, he looked back over his shoulder, rolling slightly so that Sam could do the same. His heart stopped.

The huge tornado stared back at them, hovering about a half-mile away. Everything stilled. In that moment, there was absolutely no motion, no sound.

It was a stand-off. Something wanted its presence known in that moment.

Dean cursed inwardly and rose, pulling Sam up beside him, hearing the wind gradually pick up in an outraged roar, feeling the tug of the twister as it tried to lure them in. They ducked the debris and hauled-ass to the shelter.

Bobby grabbed Sam's arm and nearly threw him down into the hole, then did the same with Dean. He followed, and the door was tightly secured over them.

Sam crashed against the far wall, his face pained as he slid down it slowly. Dean knelt in the center of the small room, doubled over, gasping for air, elbows on his knees. Bobby collapsed into a chair, one hand over his heart.

"You okay?" Dean asked after a moment, looking up, but not straightening.

Sam nodded quietly as Bobby confessed, "I'd rather take on all of Hell than a twister. Don't like the damn things."

No kidding. Dean blinked a few times, and through the sounds of squeaking metal, he said calmly, "You lost your cap."

Bobby's hand flew to his head, and fell back. "Well – shit."

**************************

It passed quickly, but Bobby insisted on waiting before opening the hatch. When he did, he stood blinking into the ill-glare of post-storm light. Not a word escaped him as he paused to take in the sight before exiting. Sam and Dean followed, stepped onto dry land, and said nothing.

The house was mostly intact, and the silent thanks issued from the men was tangible. Some shingles had raised up, some were missing. Several windows were shattered, but that was the extent of the damage that they could see. Most of Bobby's hubcap collection was gone. Several stacks of cars had either tilted, or crashed down. The trees that led to the woods Dean had disappeared into the night of their arrival had broken in half, like matchsticks flipped in two by a gigantic thumb. Some areas were leveled altogether. Dean walked toward the fence and shielded his eyes, but he couldn't see the hill he had climbed that night.

Bobby grimaced as he walked along the side of the house, and examined his truck's shattered windshield. He shook his head as he took in the broken windows, the missing hubcaps, the roofing tiles that were scattered across the yard. And that was when he noticed the mesh "Singer's Salvage Yard" sign was bent back and down the middle, one post ripped from the ground.

He sighed heavily, and made a movement to raise his cap and scratch his head. His fingers found hair instead, and he cursed and stomped up the stairs into the house.

Dean was running his hand over his car. "Two times lucky," he said to Sam. It was a wonder that it had come through with a few scratches, which could be buffed out, and the odd dent. He'd been terrified the car would be buried in rubble, or gone.

Sam said nothing, his silence forcing Dean to look up. Sam blinked once, obviously still shaken. "You okay?" he asked Dean softly.

Dean nodded faintly, sensing his brother's anxiety. "Yeah. You?"

"Barely. I should call the NFL on your ass." He rubbed at his shoulder. "That was a hell of a tackle."

Dean remembered Sam's grunt of pain. "You're just a wuss." He flexed his sore wrist gently, keeping his arm down by his side. Sam didn't look injured, but that proved nothing. Dean made a mental note to keep an eye on him.

"Well, thanks anyway," Sam said.

Dean grunted and toed at a shingle. "Reckon we can fix this up for Bobby?"

"I don't know. Pretty sure he has the tools for it."

Dean nodded again and squinted up at the sky. Looked back where the twister has challenged them. "You saw it, didn't you?" he asked softly. "The way that thing just stopped."

Sam blinked against the glare. He didn't answer, but Dean already knew what the response was.

They started picking up the dislodged shingles, but the attempt at recovery didn't last long. Lightning struck about a mile down the road and drove them inside, and kept them in for the remainder of the day.


	6. Chapter 6

The dark clouds had passed, leaving behind nearly unbearable heat and an indecisive sky. Sam wiped at the sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip. Squinting at the sky did nothing but put spots in his eyes, and he winced and lowered his sight to the earth. There was nothing foreboding up there anyway, nothing sinister. Nothing but haziness and a bright yellow ball that glared down at him sickly.

He scratched his arm.

Nothing changed.

Maybe he was crazy.

Dean was camped out on the sofa in the den, his socked feet propped on an armrest, his hands threaded over his torso. Sam had slept through the night, but Dean had stayed up through more storms, according to Bobby, not even bothering to lay down until daybreak. Sam didn't have the heart to wake him. He looked more at peace when he slept than he ever did when awake, and Sam wasn't about to mess with that. Instead, he took advantage of his brother's down time to look through as many of Bobby's books as he was able to find on deal-making before his own eyes weighed with fatigue and frustration. Okay. Time to move on to get some clues, look for some answers. But where?

Bobby's roof needed repair. But Bobby had shrugged it off, and climbed into one of his old vehicles to purchase a replacement windshield (the cars and trucks that weren't running didn't have salvageable glass) and check on his friends in the surrounding counties. He left with his cell phone in hand and instructions that the boys were not to go on the roof, that they had better find something else to do. There was a level of tension in Bobby's voice that prevented Sam from arguing. It was vague permission for them to leave if they needed to.

So. There was still that spirit to be vanquished, but he didn't want to travel too far from the storms. Surely there was something nearby. With all that was going on, there had to be something close.

Half an hour later he was shaking Dean's shoulder, despite his inner promise to let his brother sleep, telling him about a haunt three hours from Bobby's that looked kind of old hat, but was worth checking into. Dean just raised his brows over sleepy eyes, blinked several times, and reached down for his boots. He didn't bother to question Sam until he climbed into the driver's side of the Impala, and even then he accepted the job without raising an argument.

The location for the haunt proved to be difficult to find. It was an old abandoned mine, one of many that was hidden from the main roads. In fact, it was about nine miles off the main drag, down a dirt road, and onto a wide, makeshift path that was flattened by all-terrain vehicles. Dean cursed and swore as the car tilted into a rut carved deep into the road. "You said just south of Newcastle. You didn't say anything about the middle of freakin' nowhere."

"Watch it!"

"We should be walking, Sam." Dean cursed again and swerved, skidding in the dirt. Another makeshift road intersected the one he was on, and he drove over it.

Dean blinked once and slammed on the brakes, fish-tailing the car to a stop.

Sam braced the heels of his hands against the dashboard, his eyes wide, his mouth carved into a yell that never came. After car stopped he stayed put, breathing heavily before turning startled eyes to his brother. "What the fuck, Dean?"

Dean threw an arm over the back of his seat and pointed to the road behind him. "Anything striking about that to you? Huh?" His voice was raised.

"What? It's a road."

"Yeah, it's a road, Sam. In fact, it's a road which just _happens_ to intersect perfectly with another road, which just _happens_ to be at this haunt you're so eager to go on." He looked around, and pointed triumphantly to a small patch of yarrow flowers.

"So?" Sam tried his hardest not to squirm.

Dean's brows were lifted over angry eyes. "_So_? I said no, Sam. I said to let this go."

Sam felt his gut tighten. "Dean, we drive all over the country! You can't get all up in arms every time we cross over an intersection!"

"Don't play stupid with me, Sammy. I know you better than that."

_Breathe, Sammy. Come on._ "Look, Dean, we've already had this conversation. . ."

"Yes, we have!"

"And despite what you might think, we still have a job to do! Now there are two instances of 'miracle healings' in the area, and one instance of a student who was commonly thought to be dumber than dirt, getting accepted to Yale." He stared at Dean, pressing his point home. "That sound like wish-fulfillment to you?"

"We have no business being here," Dean gritted out slowly, his eyes not leaving Sam's.

"Plus there's a young man that went missing in the area last week." Sam's tone ended the argument as he opened the car door with a squeak. He climbed out, then leaned over. "You wanna leave, then go. I got this."

Dean glared at him, then flung himself out angrily. He grabbed the weapons bag from the trunk and slammed it closed, then hurried to catch up with his brother.

"By the way," Sam added as he headed toward the mine. "There's also three girls that have gone missing. They were hiking in the area."

"So you think this demon is granting wishes, making deals, _and _killing people?"

"No. I think there's two demons." He walked quickly as though he could outpace the reaction he knew was coming.

"Whoa, whoa, wait." Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's arm. "Two demons? We're gonna come out here and take down two demons?"

Oh, for the love of – "We've done it before, Dean!"

"I had the colt before, Sam!"

"You think we can't exorcize two for one?"

Dean gave Sam a look of absolute astonishment. "Uh, no?"

There was something wildly endearing about his brother when confronted with a situation that tilted. It warmed Sam to his bones, which in turn increased his anxiety. He didn't want to lose that reaction, he wanted to revel in it, to see it for years to come. Sam smiled lightly and pulled his arm from Dean's grip. "Where's your faith, man?"

"Apparently it's gone to the same place as your common sense!"

"What, Dean? You wanna leave and just let this thing go?" Sam flung out his hands, palms upwards.

"No! Of course not!"

Saving his brother would be a pain in the ass. "You got the book in that bag?"

Dean glanced down at his duffel. "Yeah."

"We're here now. We might as well play."

Dean wasn't happy. Sam stared him down using his height to his advantage. And they headed for the mine.

****************************

The shaft was little more than a straight tunnel plunging right into the heart of the earth. Sam turned on his flashlight and aimed it ahead, then scanned the rock and dirt walls. Nothing out of the ordinary, of course he wasn't really sure what would be considered out of the ordinary in a mine. Pieces of wood littered the path, leftover from the track where the cars ran, carrying materials to and from the miners. Piles of rubble blocked their way, forcing them to pick their way around the unstable debris. The air stiffened. Granules of dirt dislodged and floated in Sam's beam.

"How far?" Dean stifled a cough.

"I don't know." Sam swung his beam around. "There was an article that said you can hear a man screaming if you go down far enough, like he's buried in the ground below your feet."

"And that's what we're here for? We're not freakin' 'Ghost Hunters', Sam."

"I'm just sayin' if you hear something, that's probably it."

"Well, thanks for the news flash. Now other than trying to pick a fight with the red-eyed bitch, why are we really here?"

Sam sighed. "Dean, will you get off that?"

"Nope."

Okay. He deserved it. But if Dean really wanted to get into it, Sam was more than ready to oblige. He swung his light to Dean's face, then froze. Swung his light back down the tunnel. "You hear that?"

Dean pressed close to his arm. "No, what?"

"It sounded like. . .laughter."

"Thought you said it was supposed to be screaming. Dude must be delighted to be buried alive."

He saw Dean's face twitch in puzzlement as he shone his own light down the passageway. The laughter bubbled up again, faint but distinguishable. "Come on."

They walked quickly down the passageway towards the odd sound, Sam taking the lead, not giving Dean a chance to squeeze by him. Sam knew most sane people would be running from such a sound, but he never really thought of himself or his family as sane. The cave turned and narrowed. Sam stumbled over an old rail tie, cursed, then froze as the laughter bubbled up again, mocking him and his big feet. He gritted his teeth, suddenly reminded of the time he tripped in the school hallway, his classmates crowding around him to giggle and chuckle rather than give him a hand up. God, he hated that school.

He shook the memory away and wondered what the hell brought it up.

The beam from his light curved searchingly in an arch over the cave walls as the laughter sounded once more, this time more menacing, almost gruesome. He shivered and slowed his pace, feeling the solid, reassuring presence of Dean behind him. Dean never was laughed at in school. At least not during the times he made it to class.

He knew for a fact that his brother was smart. He never needed to study nearly as much as Sam, and Sam had often wondered if it was due to necessity, the need to soak up as much information as possible in a short amount of time. The unusual circumstances of his life had taught him to ingest information quickly. Still, there were times when he was younger that he resented Dean's freedom and self-sufficiency. And now, as Dean tried to push past him, he blocked him, held him back because dammit, he wasn't helpless.

But as the laughter rolled over him, closer this time, he was more than ready to risk damage to his dignity just so he could hide behind his big brother.

He threw an arm out, stopping Dean. "It's here."

"You see it?" Dean asked softly.

"No. But I can feel it, can't you?"

He sensed Dean's shiver. "I just feel cold. And like I really shouldn't of had that burger for lunch."

Sam peeked over his shoulder. Over and down, actually. "You didn't eat a burger for lunch."

"True, but you know that feeling you get in your stomach when you did eat one and shouldn't have?"

Sam had to let himself smile.

And the spirit attacked.

There was no warning. No shriek, no foul stench, just the sensation of being hit head-on by a Mack truck. Air slammed from Sam's lungs as he flew backwards, knocking his brother on his ass and sailing over him. He hit the ground hard with a stifled grunt.

"Sam!" He heard his name and raised his head painfully, but he couldn't find Dean. Blinking against the grit in his eyes didn't help, shining his light through the coughed-up dust didn't help. "Dean!" he shouted into the dark, over the sudden loud grind of tumbling rocks.

The sound drove Sam into a ball, arms curled in over his head. He waited. Tense. Panicked.

Nothing happened.

Breathing heavily, Sam slowly straightened, coughing, then pushed to his feet, his light raising and waving madly through the dust. "Dean?" he choked out.

His brother was gone. The place where they had been standing now sloped to the side. Dirt skittered down the new path, which led to a wall of rock, a wall that wasn't there before.

That was when he stopped breathing. The flashlight fell to his feet, rolling away. Then his body jolted into action.

Sam grabbed the fallen light and quickly shoved it between two rocks to shine on the pile, then frantically used both hands to tear at the rubble. "Oh God. Dean! Dean?" He pulled at rock after rock, and seemed to get nowhere.

"Sammy."

Sam spun. Dean was teetering behind him, one hand braced on the rock wall, his face and clothes stained with grime.

"Dean." Relief colored Sam's vision with spots, and he nearly fell back onto the rock pile. He stared for a moment, then turned back to the wall. And back to his brother. "How did you– ?"

"I dove," Dean said lightly, and pushed away from the wall. He brushed at his jacket, and winced, reaching around to gently prod the back of his head. "Probably not the best plan."

"As opposed to this?" Sam gestured to the rock wall where they had been standing.

Dean just gave a one shouldered shrug.

The relief suddenly left him boneless, and Sam let himself double over, hands on his knees, feeling emotion flood him. A hand gripped his shoulder as another patted his back, which was probably the most reassurance he was likely to get from his brother at this point. Dean's light rose and shifted to cut a path down the narrow tunnel. "So, where'd this bastard go?" he asked in a low voice.

"I don't know, he just vanished." Sam straightened, then his breath hitched. He frowned.

Dean noticed. "Uh-oh. Spidey-sense?"

_Yeah, understatement._ "We've gotta get out of here."

Dean's brow's rose. "Are you serious? We just got here!"

"Now, Dean. Go." Sam turned him abruptly in the direction of the exit.

And the second attack hit. But this time Sam was ready.

He shoved Dean to the ground and fell back with the spirit on top of him, cackling in his face. This time there was an odor; a deep, earthy and unpleasant scent, much like mud that had been sitting stagnant. He reached out for the thing's face and shoved at it, amazed at the tangibility, as if it were still a person. am yelled out and shoved at it with all his might, seeing his brother appear over the thing's shoulder, then seeing him careen into the far wall, hitting his head once again.

Dean slumped. He slumped just like he had been in the basement when he was electrocuted, like he'd been in the graveyard when the Demon walked toward him, sending a look of victory back to Sam, a look that clearly said, "he's mine, and I'm killing him for you."

And the thing that was on top of him, smirked at him. _We're here_, a voice growled in his mind. _Are you ready?_

Sam's memories assailed him, filled him, terrified him. Dean wasn't moving; and the thing above him was laughing at him, taunting him, and it was ripe for the taking.

Sam attacked.

His fist hit the spirit like a block of cement pounding on concrete, and shouldn't have done any damage. It never had before. But something clicked this time, something inside that told Sam he was better able to handle this fight. Something said for him to channel this rage he'd denied himself. He realized in that moment, as the spirit flew backwards from Sam's body, that he'd been going about it all wrong. He needed to use his anger. His anger kept him going, it gave him strength to fight.

He quickly found his footing and grabbed the spirit by the shoulders. "Who are you? Answer me!"

The spirit merely smiled at him. But of course, it wasn't a spirit.

Sam shook the body he held and slammed it hard against the rock wall. "Show yourself!"

Again, the slow smile, and flashing eyes. It was a dim flash, more of a reflection of light than anything, but it told Sam what he needed to know. "Why are you here?"

"Sam," the demon said, "you know we need to have fun on occasion." The demon tried to pull back, but Sam had it firm in his grip. It snarled underneath the smile.

"You're responsible for these killings, aren't you?"

"Nothing so mundane!" The demon cocked his head, his eyes boring into Sam's. "The question is, Sam Winchester, why are _you_ here?"

The use of his name stunned him for a moment. He gritted his teeth and slammed the demon against the wall again, harder. "Where is the crossroads demon?"

Dark eyebrows rose, almost human. "The Dealmaker? She's not here."

Breath slammed away from his body. No, it had to be here, there was a crossroads, there were miracles happening all in the area. . . "You're lying."

"Oh, demons do lie, Sam." He smirked. "But sometimes we do tell the truth."

"Call it, then. Call the Dealmaker here."

"And you'll what? Make another deal for your brother's life? More swapsies?" The head cocked mockingly. "This could get confusing. She may just take both of you and not bother with anything else." The demon leered. "What do you think, Sam Winchester? You eager to join your brother in hell? Together for eternity?"

It shouldn't have surprised him that this demon knew about the deal. About the sacrifice. Their name was well known in the underworld. And yet to hear the situation discussed so casually as though they were talking over a beer. . ."No one's going to hell, but you," he spat angrily.

The demon laughed. "According to you and what divine power?" He leaned into Sam's face, taking the upper hand even though Sam still held him firm. "I know what you are. Your brother knows. Why he brought you back here to destroy everything is beyond me, but you know what? I don't care. It worked in our favor. I like it!"

"If you know what's good for you, you'll shut your face!" Sam snarled.

"Own up, Sam."

"The Demon is dead!" Sam yelled. "That story's over!"

"And do you really think he was the only one of his kind?" The demon shook his head. "Oh no, it isn't over, Sam. Not by a long shot."

Sam growled in his throat, then screamed out in rage. He slammed the demon against the wall over and over, not stopping when blood started streaming from its ears. Not when the demon left in a thick, soupy black mist and the person left staring at him was begging for mercy. He felt hands dig into his arms from behind, pulling at him, heard a voice right in his ear. "Sam! Sam, stop it, it's gone! It's gone, Sam!"

The red vision left him and dissolved in the comfort of Dean's intensity. He released the stunned victim, not even bothering to watch as he slid in a boneless heap to the ground. "Dean?" Oh, god – he turned to his brother and grabbed his shoulders, eyes drifting over Dean's body. "Dean, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good. You?" Dean was clutching his arms, studying his face, concern carved deep into his eyes. Sam nodded, and only then did Dean look at the man on the ground.

Sam followed his gaze. His head was swimming, but he could feel things come back into focus. He watched the unmoving body for a moment, then released Dean and knelt down, pressing his fingers to the man's neck. "Crap, I. . . . I – he needs a hospital."

"Not surprised. You tried to decorate the wall with his brains." The comment was flippant, but the tone was serious. Dean winced a few times, and Sam reached out to touch Dean's head, to check him out, but his concern was characteristically knocked away.

Fine, then. Sam bent down, lifting the victim carefully into a fireman's carry.

Dean just winced, again, and picked up both lights, aiming them towards the exit.

***********************

"Bobby?" The voice on the other end of the line sounded uncertain, searching for reassurance.

Bobby shifted his cell phone so he could prop it against his ear with his shoulder, and wiped dark grease from his hands with an old towel. "Dean? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Well, maybe something. I'm at a hospital."

"Hospital? What happened? Is it Sam?"

"No, no, he's fine. We're both fine. Well, I got a little knock on the head, but what's new, right?"

Bobby shook his head in confusion as though Dean could see it. His hesitation was enough to spur Dean on. "We checked out Sam's mine. Found a man possessed by a demon."

"You exorcize it?"

"Not exactly."

Dean's hesitation set Bobby on edge. He didn't like the beat-around-the-bush approach, and he was perfectly able to sympathize with someone who apparently had trouble piecing their thoughts together. Just as long as that person wasn't Dean, calling from a hospital. "Will you just tell me what the hell's going on?"

"The demon left this man's body. We brought him to the county hospital to get checked out."

"Then where's Sam?"

He heard Dean shift the phone. "Men's room."

Bobby was growing tense. "Then hadn't you better talk fast?"

"Yeah, I – listen. That demon. We didn't exorcize it. It left on its own."

"That's not so unusual."

"No, not really, but Sam was threatening it, and it just whooshed out like some reverse bowel movement or something."

"Come on, Dean!" Bobby didn't keep the disgust from his voice.

"No, seriously! I mean it didn't just vapor away, it sort of – oozed. It was thicker or something. It was pretty disgusting if you ask me."

Point being. . ."Dean, how long does it usually Sam take to pee?"

"I think Sam scared it off." Dean finally got to his point.

The cell phone slid as Bobby nearly jerked his head up in surprise. He caught it in time. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm saying Sam threatened it, and it vanished."

"That's happened before, Dean! It probably just got tired of messing with you two."

"Nuh-uh. Not like this. I'm telling you, Bobby, something about Sam, something about that thing – it was scared. It decided it didn't like Sam. It – it ran away."

This was something to digest. Bobby eyed the cloth on the ground, dropped from his hold. "How far away are you?"

"About two hours, a little under."

"Get back here quick. And don't say anything about this to Sam."

"Bobby, what's going on?"

"Just get back here."

The voice on the line lowered, and said, "Right," and hung up. Bobby knew Sam had returned.

He stared at his cell phone for a few moments, then pocketed it. Turned to the car he'd been meaning to fix, the one that was overdue, the one whose owner had called every day for the last three days, checking on the condition, dogging his tail, worrying about the bill hiking up. And By George if the bastard didn't leave him alone, he'd probably hike up the bill a good bit. He was in scrap metal. He didn't repair cars, much. Usually found a way to avoid it.

The pressing situation was as good excuse as any to pack up his tools and head to his books.

**********************

The sun had set. Dean stared at the highway, hypnotized by the broken line that divided it. He and Sam had said little, not out of spite, but because neither really felt like talking. In fact, Sam was dozing against the car door, his long body folded into the seat, knees pulled closer to him than was normal. He had a natural tendency to fold in rather than sprawl out, like Dean often did, and the habit served him well. Otherwise there was no way he'd be able to spend hours on the road with Dean's shorter reach to the pedals. Dean wondered where the habit had come from. When Sam hit his growth spurt, he was in school more than he was driving. Probably short school desks. But wouldn't that make a person sprawl his legs underneath?

Some things about his brother he would just never understand.

His head hurt like a bitch. Okay, so he lied to Bobby. He knew he was probably concussed, earlier he felt the sour nausea battling for the contents of his stomach, and it was all he could do not to hurl his cookies in the floor of the Impala. But the last thing he wanted to do was hang around a hospital. He was fine, his vision was fine. Keeping his brains between his ears was a chore, but that was easing up.

His attention returned to the sky. The last time he remembered seeing a sunset like this, it was fake. A backdrop carried across a movie set. There was another time, was that a sunset or sun rise? Sunrise, surely, when Molly went to...wherever it was she went to. Heaven. Valhalla. Oblivion. And Dad, where did he go? He didn't vanish in a ray of light like Molly had. His was more. . .stardust. Maybe Molly's. . .ascendance. . .had been the illusion of the sun. Maybe she had disappeared in a flash of dust as well.

No. She went to the light. Dad just. . .went.

And there were times when he wondered, if Sam had stayed dead, would his spirit have come back? Would he be a ghost and come see Dean, or would he haunt Cold Oak looking for revenge on his killer? It wasn't Sam's style, but then his brother had surprised him before, and never more so than when he killed Jake. That expression on his face – what if he had come back, and Dean still had to vanquish him? Now _there_ was a thought.

The only reason he could let that thought cross his mind was because the car was filled with soft snores, and it made for a funny combination. The sound was safe. But all the contemplation? Seriously, prime headache material, and he had enough of one, thank you.

Dean's lips quirked into a smile. He let Sam sleep. The truth was, he sort of liked watching him sleep. It amazed him just how much that long body was capable of relaxing, almost like it was expanding to become more of Sam. And he couldn't help it, ever since. . ._then_. . .he watched his brother more. Call it appreciation, call it obsession, call it just plain creepy, he didn't care. He watched Sam sleep. Eat. The way his mouth twitched when the seriousness of a situation faded, but he didn't want to admit it. Those long, thin fingers that typed away at computer keys like he'd made them. The way he would frown when reading. The innocence that tried to sneak back into his eyes, only to be dulled by pain.

Dean saw it all, and relished it. Breathed it in, used it to sustain him.

He loved his brother more than anything, but there were so many times, when they were younger, when Sam felt like a job, like an object to be protected. Now, Sam was just his brother. t was a new feeling for Dean. Still protect him, sure. Always. But Dean knew, through harsh events, that he couldn't always be there. And in a year's time – he wouldn't be. So they had to take care of everything now, get things lined up so that Sam could have that normal life he always wanted.

Dean had often wondered what _he_ would do with a normal life. Probably better he was going to hell. He didn't need to freak people out every time the lights flickered or someone farted.

Okay, again with the whole contemplation thing? Headache?

Sam's breath caught suddenly, and his eyes opened. His head snapped up. He realized where he was, and relaxed, rubbing his face.

"Problem?" Dean glanced at him.

"M'fine."

"Try not doing that, huh? Unless you _want_ a head-on with a tree."

"S'rry." Sam groaned lightly and struggled to sit up. "Ow." He squinted through sleep-filled eyes. "How far are we?"

"Bout an hour out." Dean studied him. "All that crap back there must've wore you out. You going all Granny-pansy on me?"

"Don't guess I slept good last night." Sam threaded his fingers together and stretched his arms in front of him. His shoulders popped audibly.

"Keep that up and I'll be picking your arms up out of the floorboard," Dean fussed, not being able to pop a bone in his body. Not willingly, anyway.

Sam replied by tilting his head and cracking his neck.

"Dude! Warn a guy!"

"Excuse me, Onion Man?"

"Hey, at least you know when I've had onions."

"Dude, the whole state knows. It's probably the cause of global warming."

"So's my legacy." Dean put on his cock-fire grin, then slammed on the breaks. "Shit!"

There was a man in the road.

The car swerved. Dean fought the wheel, half aware of Sam bracing himself against the dashboard and the passenger side door. The squeal of tires hurt his pride. He swung around to a stop and gripped the wheel, panting. Turned quickly to look around him. "Where is he?"

"Dean! Dude, that's the second time you. . ."

"That man, where is he?"

"What man?"

"The man that was in the middle of the goddamn road!" Wide-eyed, Dean craned his neck around and looked behind him, then over the hood of the car. Part of him wanted to open his door and get out, and part of him said, as an idea? That one sucked.

"Dean, I never saw him. You sure?"

"'Course I'm sure, you think I just suddenly got a hair to aim for the trees?" Dean kept looking. A chill pricked at the back of his neck, then his spine. He looked behind him.

A dead, disjointed face was peering at him through the back window.

"Sam!" Dean dove for the duffel in the back floorboard, but the face was gone.

"What?" Sam was looking, and not seeing, and it was pissing Dean off.

"It was right there, right. . ." he gritted his teeth, "right there!" How the hell could Sam miss it?

"Dean," Sam's voice was as doubtful as he would let it be, because it was obvious that he did want to believe his older brother, "there's nothing there."

"I know what I saw, Sammy!" Dean snapped, and kept looking, wondering if maybe his mind really was playing tricks on him. It wouldn't be the first time. Of course, there were times when he thought his mind was playing tricks, only to find out that the event was real. Or maybe he was hallucinating. Head injury and all. Sam was watching him closely, his thin brows pulled into a line over concerned eyes, and that pissed him off even more. "You know what? Just forget it." He spun in his set and angrily shoved the car into gear, only to stop it again, cursing as his phone rang. He leaned to one hip and dug the cell out of his front pocket, sliding it open in a clipped motion. "Hello?"

"Dean? Where are you?"

Bobby. Dean glanced at Sam and cleared his throat, carefully controlling his tone. "'Bout an hour out. Due west. Why?"

"Take 212 toward Faith. Got trouble there. Another possession."

Dean's head flopped back against his seat. He winced. "You gotta be kidding me."

"Got a call from Steve about Dale, an old hunter friend of mine. Dale saw it but he's in no condition to do anything about it, so I said I'd get some help."

"What about Steve, can't he do something?"

"Steve's staring at half a house right now."

"Oh. Sorry to hear that. But what about Dale, why can he do anything? You said he was a hunter."

"Was. Quadriplegic."

Another hesitation. "Oh." Dammit, dammit, dammit, and the way his head was pounding, one day he was going to learn to tell these people he needed a break when he really needed one. Dean pointed to the glove box, and Sam quickly opened it, giving Dean a questioning look then digging out the small notebook Dean pointed to. A pen was jammed into the wire binding. "Okay, gimme the stats." He scribbled hastily. "Got it. You on the way back to your place? We'll call you." The phone clicked shut.

"Another job?" Sam asked.

"Another possession."

Sam's brows drew tight again.

"You said it." Dean shifted to drive, gave one more look around, just to be certain, then pulled off the shoulder in search for the detour.

Just in his mind. That's all.


	7. Chapter 7

Dale was waiting for them on the sidewalk. Dean and Sam quickly exited the car and crossed to the trunk as the man wheeled up to them. His body was immobile from the neck down, near lifeless, and his head angled oddly to the side. But the man's eyes glinted in the darkness with an inner light. "You gents ready for this?" he asked in a deep voice that was little more than a growl.

Dean glanced up at the sky split with lightning. Just great, just fan-fucking-tastic. He yanked at the strap on his duffle. "What're we looking at?"

"A right bitch."

"You said possession, right?"

"She's a member of my church. How's that for irony?" Dale snorted.

Dean handed Sam a small duffle and the salt gun before closing the trunk. "Guess the church can't save everyone." He tried to get a read on the man, but it was hard. Dale's face was impassive. Dean didn't know if he was scared, pissed off, ambivalent or what. "She just walking around in there?"

"She's stuck. I might be damn near paralyzed, but I'm not incapable. Got protection all over the place."

Sam looked up at the house. The windows were dark, with the exception of one room upstairs.

"Saw the omens," Dale continued. "Knew trouble was coming, so I had a friend fortify the place."

"Then how did she get in?" Sam asked.

"Window in the attic." Dale almost smiled. "Didn't think of that one."

"Why you? I mean, why is she here?"

"Cause it's the same bitch that tried to kill me, and did this." His tone gestured to the wheelchair. "Came back to gloat and finish the job, I guess, but this time I got her."

Dean's eyes took in the dilapidated body. "Bobby says you were a hunter."

"Used to be a damn good one." The body didn't move, but the wheelchair did. Dale spun around and headed to the house with the brothers in tow. "Bitch took me out. Now I just hear about hunts and tell people where to go." The chair stopped, and what might have passed for a rueful grin spread over his face. "'Course now when I tell people where to go, I know they can crawl right back out, so there's no point, is there? And who's responsible for that, I wonder? Huh. Figures it would be you damned Winchesters." He shook his head and wheeled on. "I'd 'a called anyone but you, but Bobby said you were close."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint you, but we're here now, so you want us to do the job or not?" Dean asked firmly. His headache had ebbed, but his mood remained sour.

"What about the person that placed the protection on your house?" Sam whispered. They were on the porch now, Dale having whirred the chair up a long ramp. "Couldn't he do something?"

"It was a priest, and he's no hunter. He'll set up a place but ain't big on the whole exorcism thing. I just as soon not put him in an uncomfortable situation, seeing as how he's a man of God."

Sam smiled. It was a dark smile Dean had seen only once before on his brother's face, and it made him stop midway through the door as Sam hesitated, then asked, "So, you get stuck in a chair and find religion? That your new hobby now?"

"Sam!" Dean snapped.

Dale stopped his chair in the foyer. He couldn't look back at Sam, and Dean had the feeling that he wouldn't anyway. "Winchesters," was all he said. "Bitch is upstairs. Careful not to get yourself impaled, she's got claws like the devil. Probably _is _the devil, thanks to you two."

"We'll be back," Dean said to Dale as he passed him, taking the bag Sam was shouldering. As they headed up, he gave Sam's shoulder a shove. "What the hell was that?" he whispered viciously.

"What?" Sam whispered back.

"That crack about finding religion! That's not like you, Sam!"

"It was a good question!"

"It was a shitty question!"

"I just don't want him feeling sorry for himself!"

Dean pulled Sam to a halt at the landing. "Are you fucking serious? It's pretty obvious the dude doesn't even know the meaning of self-pity! Unlike some people I know!"

Sam's nostrils flared. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean he's obviously made do with what he's got, where as you go around moaning about turning evil all the time! You wanna play the pity party, look in the mirror!" A yell assaulted their ears, and both men winced.

"Now's not the time for this," Sam said curtly.

"Got that right," Dean snapped back, his glare equaling Sam's.

The room they entered was a simple bedroom. And in the center of this room was a young woman tied to the bed. Her arms had been wrenched above her and secured to the headboard. Her legs were spread-eagled, ropes binding her ankles to each bedpost. Her long blond hair was darkened and matted with sweat, and the hope in her eyes confused them.

"Oh, thank god,"she said. "Thank god. Get me out of here, he's crazy!"

"Yeah, yeah, heard it all before." Dean let his bag drop with a loud thump. His eyes took in the bindings. It was obvious she wasn't going anywhere. "You here long, or were you planning a mini-vacation?"

"Please let me go," she begged. "I'm not what he says I am, you have to believe me!"

"Like I said. Been there, heard that." Dean knelt down and rummaged through the bag as Sam crossed to the other side of the room with a small book. She watched them, and her eyes widened as Dean straightened, a flask in his hand. "Let's see what you are then, huh?" He stood over her, trying to ignore the fact that she really did look lovely, that she was tied down, that he didn't have the occasional fantasy about things like this. Well, not about demons, certainly. He unscrewed the cap, and tilted the bottle.

"What is that?" the woman cried out, doing her best to cringe away, making him pause.

"Like you don't know." Dean said, and poured.

The woman screamed out in panic, then her head snapped up. Wide eyes found the wet stain on her shirt, soaking through just over her breast. "What is that?"she asked again.

Dean's face fell slightly. At the other side of the bed, Sam's grip tightened on his book.

Dean poured again. The girl gasped in fear from the shock of the liquid, but other than that...nothing.

"Christo," Sam said.

Nothing happened.

"I don't believe it," Dean muttered.

"What's going on?" the young woman snapped, a tinge of hysteria in her voice. "Why are you pouring water on me?"

"Dean," Sam said again, slowly, "how could he have tied her down?"

The shock registered on Dean's face right as the door flew open behind him. The woman screamed, and both men spun.

Dale was there. Standing. He smiled ferally, and stepped back out of sight.

"Sam!" Dean yelled out, though it wasn't needed. They nearly collided as they dove through the doorway to see nothing. "Son of a bitch!"

"Now what?" Sam asked quickly.

"Get the girl outta here. I got this."

"Dean, wait."

"Now, Sam!" Dean clutched the bottle and threw open the door to the adjacent room. In the previous room he could hear frightened sobs and muttered thanks, interspersed with hushed, soothing tones, tones that came closer as Sam led the poor woman out.

Dean rushed down the hall towards the stairs, then felt a violent shove against his back. He yelped, and the flask soared from him. He heard the woman shriek, heard Sam yell out his name, and felt every stair he hit on the way down. He landed hard at the base, on his back, unable to move other than to raise his head in shock.

Dale appeared over him, and smiled. "Winchester," he said, making the word sound like a succulent treat. His booted foot slowly raised, something that Dale wasn't supposed to be able to do, and crashed down hard onto Dean's chest, crushing the air from him.

_Damn_, he wasn't supposed to be able to do that either.

Dean grabbed at the denim-clad leg, trying to shove the weight off, to roll, to kick, to take a breath. Dale leaned forward, and Dean gasped in what air he could, hearing his brother call his name in alarm. "Sam," he managed to choke, seeing the figure on the stairway above him, holding the frightened woman to him. "Get – her – out." He grunted loudly as Dale put all his weight square on Dean's chest, threatening to crack through it.

Sam said something to the woman, and she ran back down the hall. Then Sam charged.

The stomps down the stairs reverberated like thunder. The creature that barreled into Dale was more like a monster than a young man, and for a moment Dean didn't care. He just rolled to his side and gasped in as much precious air as he could, wincing at the pain, wondering how the release of pressure could actually hurt more. Sam was punching the man, apparently trying his hardest to literally beat the demon out of him. He sailed backwards and landed hard across the dining table, tumbled across and fell to the other side.

Dean staggered to his feet. He was heading for Sam when he saw the book that Sam had dropped during his tackle. He dove for it, grabbing it before Dale could, and felt himself slammed back against a curio cabinet. Glass shattered around him, but he kept his grip on the book.

Sam was back on his feet, holding a straight-back chair. He swung. The demon ducked, then popped up and grabbed the chair from him. Dean didn't have time to call out a warning before Dale swung, but Sam was fast. He ducked and caught hold of Dale at the end of the swing, tumbling them to the hardwood floor. "Dean!" he yelled out, and that was Dean's cue.

His Latin wasn't as good as Sam's, to hear it. It lacked finesse. But finesse wasn't needed during an exorcism. He opened the book, and started the chant, only to break off at Sam's cry.

"Where is it?" Sam slammed the injured demon against the wall. "WHERE IS IT?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the weakened demon spat.

"Where is the red-eyed demon? The Dealmaker, where is it?"

It was deja-vu. Was his brother seriously going to go through this again? "Sam, no!"

"Where is it?" With almost superhuman strength he shoved the demon against the wall, cracking the Italian tile.

"Sam!"

"Keep reading!" The look Sam gave Dean was wild, energized, frightening. "Don't you dare stop reading, Dean."

Dean shoved aside his misgivings and spoke the words loudly, his concentration on the book in his hands, on getting the job done. He looked up at the panicked scream, saw Sam punching the body over and over, and saw the demon leave in a thick black cloud and dissipate.

And yet Sam kept punching.

Dean dropped the book and rushed to him, pulling him back, more deja-vu, what the hell – "Sam. Sam, stop it. Sam!"

"Let me go!" Sam turned and shoved his brother to the floor, then rounded on the inert body.

"No, dammit." Dean quickly pushed to his feet. His arms wrapped tightly around Sam as he tried to wrench him away. "The demon's gone, Sam," he said in his brother's ear. "This is Dale, it's over!"

"It's not over!" Sam's voice dripped like lead as he struggled, his arms pinned to his side. "He was weak enough to be possessed. He'll be possessed again!"

"You don't know that! Sam!" Dean felt a sense of panic rise when he realized what Sam intended to do. He pressed hard against Sam's back and tightened his grip.

Sam responded by growling in rage and slamming himself backwards on the floor, landing full on top of Dean, crushing the breath from his already pained ribs. Dean gasped in agony, and Sam took advantage of the lessened grip to push himself up and launch himself at the victim on the floor, who was coming to, and was frightened.

Dale looked up in confusion and fear, unable to move. "No," he whispered, and it was all he was able to say before Sam whipped out his silver knife, and slit Dale's throat.

Dean slowly pushed up to one elbow. His wide eyes fixed on the slumped body before drifting to Sam in disbelief. "Sammy," he whispered, and his stomach turned.

Sam's shoulders slumped, and he gave a relieved smile. Almost laughed. Sat beside Dean, who hadn't moved, and handed him the knife. "One less to worry about," he said with deadly calm.

Dean couldn't speak. He accepted the bloody knife that was handed to him, then cursed and grabbed Sam as he fell over in exhaustion.

******************************

Bobby was moving like a crazed person when Dean and Sam arrived late that night. He stopped and looked up as they walked in. Dean looked worn and pained, and slumped onto the old sofa. Sam said nothing, just stomped heavily up the stairs and retired to his room.

It didn't take a genius to realize something was wrong.

Bobby set down his papers. "Well? How'd it go?"

Glancing up wearily, Dean waved a hand at him. "You know. Standard stuff." Standard if you included his little brother beating the shit out of a helpless man, and killing another, only to have a distorted memory of it later.

"No trouble?"

No trouble? Try with a capital T that rhymed with D that stood for — he pulled in a shallow breath. Man, he wanted to sleep for a week, let his battered body fall senselessly into oblivion. He wondered how many times he'd hit his head by now.

"Dean, what happened?"

No avoiding it. "Bobby – it was Dale." God, he sounded pathetically tired. "He was the one possessed. He had a girl, a young woman, tied to the bed. I don't know if he was going to use her as bait, or rape her, or what. When we got there he said the demon was in her. He met us out at the street in his wheelchair and everything. He nearly had us."

Bobby sat slowly in a dilapidated chair across from Dean. "What happened to him?"

Fatigued eyes rose to meet his friend's. "He's dead, Bobby. He – didn't make it." He couldn't bring himself to say that Sam – that he'd killed— not now. Not until he figured this out, because something was going on. That wasn't Sam. It couldn't be.

_How certain are you that what you brought back was one-hundred percent pure Sam?_

Even in death, that damn yellow-eyed son-of-a-bitch plagued him.

Bobby's lips pressed thin, and he closed his eyes. "Probably for the best, really. Dale's been down for a long time. Wasn't really expected to live out the year, so his day-nurse said. 'Course what the hell does she know." He stood and turned his back to Dean, then knocked over a pile of books in a fit of anger. They crashed into a glass of water, which shattered on the hardwood floor.

Dean winced at the sound. But he said nothing.

"How's Sam?" Bobby asked, keeping his back to Dean. "Noticed he went right on up."

"Tired. Two hunts in one day, we're both pretty wiped."

Bobby nodded. "You should get some sleep."

Sure. The thought had crossed his mind. "What about you?" Dean gestured to the piles of papers and books. "What are you up to?" The question didn't really concern Bobby's work, but was directed more towards the sorrowful slump in the man's shoulders.

"Nothing. I'll tell you in the morning."

"But you said to get back here. Quickly."

"I said in the morning, Dean." Sharp eyes turned to him, and Dean nodded.

"You know where I'll be," he said, standing gingerly. He left Bobby in the middle of the den, but watched him from the shadows of the adjoining room. Bobby stood for several moments, then sagged into his favorite chair and put his head in his hands.

Dean's chest filled with sympathy, but he left the man to his grief, and went to check on Sam.

Bobby _had _been busy. Two small upstairs rooms had been cleared out, the unused beds uncovered. How his brother had known to go up beat the hell out of Dean, but there he was, on twin bed, lying on his back, heels hanging off the end. His eyes were closed, his head tilted slightly to the side. It was so reminiscent of Sam's death bed that Dean hurried to him without thinking and shook his shoulder. "Hey. Hey!"

"What?" Sam's eyes snapped open. He sighed and let his head fall back. "What do you want, Dean?"

Dean realized he didn't know what to say. It was too recent, still too close to the heart, mere weeks since his brother left him, since that whole – thing. "You sort of scared me back there, buddy," he said gently. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I had things under control."

"No, I don't think so." Dean eased his hip onto the mattress. "Sam," his breath caught, and he forced himself to release it. "You just killed a helpless man, dude. The demon was gone."

Sam's gaze was fixed on the ceiling. His mouth pinched tight before he spoke. "It was the demon. I killed the demon."

"No. I wish it were, god, I do. But it was Dale."

The mouth pulled into a tense line, but Sam said nothing.

"Listen, I don't know if it was just rage, or what, but you didn't have to slit his throat like that." Dean kept his voice gentle, his concern over the situation breaking away any anger he should have felt. "You wanna explain that?"

"No."

"Sam."

"You were hurt. I was mad. That's all."

"No, Sam," he shifted, "I was up, I was better, the demon, you – you got him." Dean's smile was a vain attempt to understand what was going on in his little brother's head. "Come on, what you did back there, that's not normal."

"Maybe I'm not normal."

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. "Oh, here we go," he muttered, regretting his last choice of words.

"I'm serious, Dean! Look at me! Fine, I killed a man, you think I don't know that?" Sam had pushed to an upright position. Dean pulled back slightly, giving his brother some space. "You think I don't feel like shit about it? But god, I was just so mad, and really, what kind of life would he have had, huh? What was to keep him from getting possessed again? I did him a favor!"

"That wasn't your call!" Dean replied hotly.

"And it's not yours to judge! I'll be my own jury. You get out."

Now Dean was nervous. He scooted further back on the bed. "Sam, really, man. What's going on with you?"

"I said leave me alone!"

Dean frowned. He reached for him. "Sammy, look. . . "

Sam slammed his hand down on the bedside table. "What, are you fucking deaf? I said GO AWAY!" His body shook with fury and unshed tears.

The words stabbed at Dean. He stood slowly. "Okay." He hesitated, and turned for the door, stopping just inside it. "I'll be in my room."

May as well. Seemed he wasn't doing any good for anyone, anyway.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe killing Dale had been the best thing to do. Hell, he'd killed without thought, stuck down in rage.

But this was Sam. His Sammy.

Wasn't it?


	8. Chapter 8

The night was uneventful. Dean woke, blinking against sunlight that only played at shining, half-heartedly battling the clouds that threatened to obscure it. He sat up slowly, rubbed his face, scratched his arms. Prodded his ribs gingerly, but they seemed better. Felt the back of his head. Sore, but that was to be expected. But damn if his wrist wasn't bothering him again.

He flexed it back and forth carefully as he slid off the side of the bed. The hardwood floor was warm to his bare feet. What meager air conditioning Bobby used didn't do the upstairs much good, and he'd slept with the window cracked. He eyed a few dust bunnies that skittered across the floor in the draft. Apparently clearing out the rooms hadn't included sweeping. Okay, yeah, like _he _was Mr. Good Housekeeping. Dean blinked away his sluggishness, rubbed his face again. Sniffed and tweaked at his nose.

Sam.

Anxiety caught hold of him, and he quickly walked into the hallway and checked Sam's room. The bed was heavily slept in, which made Dean consider the possibility of nightmares. Clothes from the previous day were in a rumpled pile on the floor. His window was wide open, and Dean walked to it, leaning out. He could see Sam in the yard, looking at something in his hands. Sam looked up as Bobby's voice carried through the air, though Dean couldn't see him, and he heard Sam laugh easily.

His brother was laughing. His brother sounded like himself. Okay, maybe yesterday was just a nightmare, a one-shot brought on by panic, something to keep in the past. He just wanted a normal day. Couldn't he have a normal day?

Experience taught him better than that.

He waddled sleepily into the hall, nearly collided with the bathroom door, and headed for the shower. The hot water (which Bobby _did_ have in abundance) soothed away the aches. A cold shower was preferable in the heat, but clenching his sore muscles against the chill probably wasn't such a kosher idea. He toweled off, then peeked into the hall before scurrying back to his room where he walked naked for a few moments, loathe to put on his clothes. They'd just stick to his body like a second skin he didn't need. Jeans only, then, until he absolutely had to put on his shirt. The thought that Bobby was probably dressed in his usual layers made him ready to vomit.

Leftover toast sat on a plate on the stove. Dean fixed himself an egg and sat at the table for a solitary meal. He could hear Bobby outside. Probably talking to Sam, or, knowing Bobby, talking to himself. The mumbling was an odd comfort, and Dean finished his food quickly, eager to see what had Bobby in such a vocal mood. The rumble of an engine made him swing the door open and step out, a crust of toast in his hand.

The Impala was gone, and Dean paused. He spotted Bobby at the far end of the yard, hands on his denim-clad hips, looking up at the bent sign.

Dean joined him. "Where's Sam?" he asked, also eyeing the sign.

Bobby started. "You're up. You get something to eat?"

Dean held up the crust.

"Sent him out for roofing nails. Have everything around here but roofing nails."

"You sure that's such a good idea?"

Bobby frowned. "He's a big boy, Dean. Seem to remember being the one who taught him to drive."

Dean checked. "Well, yeah, I just mean he'll probably come back with thumb tacks rather than roofing tacks or something."

"Give him _some_ credit."

Dean's brows flicked, and he nodded. He glanced around the yard, then turned his attention back to Bobby. "The rest of your neighbors get through okay?"

"Josh had a blow, but he's fine. Esmee came out without a scratch, but her house is destroyed. She's staying with her sister. Couldn't get James."

"Sounds like that storm hit everyone."

"Not just that storm. Storms all over the place. All popped up like crazy, all at the same time."

Dean eyed his crust. "You talk to your weather friend lately?"

"Pretty sure he's been busy."

Dean nodded, and scuffed the heel of his boot through the dirt. Bobby's eyes followed the motion. "Sam wanted to wake you, but I said to let you sleep in. Looked like you two had a time of it last night."

"Yeah. He's the one that should've slept in."

"He said you hit your head."

Compared to what happened, it was such a small thing. "Really, Bobby, I'm fine."

"Got hurt ribs."

"Seriously, is there anything else you'd like to bring up?" Dean flashed a humored look at him.

"Want coffee?"

"Have an empty mug on the counter waiting for you." Dean preferred Bobby's coffee to his own. He pointed to the bent metal. "What're you gonna do about that sign?"

"Try and bend it back, I suppose. It's metal, like everything else around here."

"That's a hell of a lot of bending."

"Fortunately, I got two strapping young men that can do it for me."

Dean barked a laugh.

They walked back to the house. It had been three days since their arrival, three days that felt like three years, and Dean was pretty sure that was the longest time they'd spent at Bobby's. No, wait, that was wrong. After Dad. . .but he was a bit out of his head then so it didn't count. It was sort of nice to go out and have a consistent place to return to, a place that wasn't hampered by a steering wheel. "If you're not careful, we may end up liking it here."

Bobby just snorted. He knew better.

***************************

Coffee was brewed, and chairs were scraped out onto the porch in front of an old electric fan, connected to an interior outlet by a long orange extension cord. Dean toed at it. He was glad he laid off the shirt, hell, he couldn't believe he was drinking coffee in this heat but it was a sort of comfort thing for him. Bobby was in his usual getup, a t-shirt, overshirt and cap, and Dean was sweating just looking at him.

"So. You wanna tell me what else happened out there yesterday?" Bobby asked him. "That phone call you made from the hospital?"

Dean eyed him askance. "Did you really need roofing nails?"

"Sure I did." Bobby took a cautious sip, and waited.

Dean palmed his mug, feeling the burn of heated ceramic. The aroma wafted to his nose, and he closed his eyes, mentally feeding on the comfort. "It's Sam," he said. And there was a pause as he gathered his thoughts, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "I don't know, Bobby. I'm worried about him. He's not acting like himself. I mean he does, and then these strange things just happen."

"What things?" Bobby prodded softly.

"He gets all angry. And I don't mean just angry. I'm talking spiteful, vengeful, "Payback" type stuff. And it's getting worse. Before we came out here we were in a bar, and he tried taking these guys out. They were mouthing off and showing their asses, but he went at them like they were spawns of Satan or something. And that's another thing. These demons?" He waved his hand wih a frown. "No fear. He's checking them off this invisible list he's carrying in his head, and it's scaring the crap outta me."

"Why did he go after the guys in the bar?"

"Shoot. They were piss-drunk. Making comments about me and Sam. He got pissed back."

"So he was defending you."

"No."

Bobby leaned in. "He was defending you," he said pointedly.

"No, he was. . ." Dean caught Bobby's look, "yeah, okay, he was defending me. Jackass."

"You think maybe he's taking this whole 'saving you' thing to extremes, don't you?"

"Yeah, well, you already know what I think about that, and I don't want to argue about it again." Dean raised his mug to his lips.

"Maybe he's just trying to figure things out. I mean dying like that, it's gotta be hard on a guy."

It was such an absurd comment that Bobby and Dean eyed each other, then chuckled. "Hell, I guess," Dean smiled around another sip. He cupped the mug in his hands again and watched the liquid swirl.

"All I'm saying is, give it some time. Let him sort this out. And watch him."

Tears suddenly stung at Dean's eyes, surprising him. Bobby's words held the echo of a sentiment spoken a lifetime ago. "You sounded almost like Dad just then." He looked up aimlessly. "God, I miss that bastard."

Bobby just nodded, offering no words.

"You know what he said to me? Before he died? He said for me to watch out for Sammy. And Sam took that to mean I needed to watch _out_ for him." Dean's voice caught. "He's so afraid of turning evil, like that Demon bastard said he would. Even now he worries about it, and I just think – what if I did that to him?" He blinked rapidly. "What if by bringing him back I turned him into the thing he's most afraid of? What if _I_ killed him, Bobby?"

"Dean, stop it." Bobby set down his mug and turned in his chair. "That is Sam Winchester, just like we know him. There's nothing wrong with him. Sure, he has a bit of a temper, always has, and you know it. Hell, even priests have been known to mutter a few choice words now and then. He's torn, he's confused, and he's hurting. And there's nothing you can do about that but be there for him."

But Bobby didn't know the whole story, and Dean couldn't find a way to tell him. "I guess," he said, studying the paint peeling from the warped two-by-fours that made up the floor of the porch. "I just can't help thinking that Dad would know what to do."

"Even though you know your father never had all the answers?" Bobby's expression softened. "Your father's time has passed, Dean," he said gently. "It's your time now, so the question really is, what would _you_ do?"

Dean's face threatened to crumple, just for a moment, but he saw the truth in that statement. He raised a startled glance to Bobby, suddenly remembering the smile his dad had given him when they killed the Demon, remembering the relief and near disbelief Dean himself felt. In his mind's eye, he saw the tear that slid down his dad's cheek and met with his smile, a smile like nothing he'd ever given Dean in his entire life, a smile that said he was truly happy and proud of his son. And that chapter closed, forever.

But one burden had been lifted, only to be replaced by another. And this burden was of his own making. His dad had nothing to do with it.

For the first time in his life, his dad had nothing to do with it.

It was as liberating as it was frightening.

The Impala cruised dustily into the yard and parked beside Bobby's truck. The truck's new windshield was in place, much cleaner than any other part of the huge vehicle. The Impala was dwarfed beside it, and when Sam climbed out, he towered over both, making the corner of Dean's mouth quirk. "Man," he said fondly as Sam walked towards them, paper bag in hand, "you really are a freak of nature."

"What?" Sam laughed, and Dean smiled, so glad to see the old Sam, the one not wracked by pain or guilt or commitment. Just for a while.

Sam shook the remark from his head, smile still on his face. "Hey, Bobby? Saw Tyler Johnson. He's headed this way, thought I'd get a jump on and warn you."

Any calm Bobby had accumulate over the past hour vanished. He sprang from his chair. "Dammit! I don't believe it."

"What?"

"Get in here and help me."

Sam's frown was puzzled, and he and Dean shared a shrug. They rushed inside and stared as Bobby started grabbing his demonology books. "Pull that curtain back." Sam did so, and Bobby dumped them into the corner.

"Bobby, what the hell?" Sam asked.

"Shut up and grab an armful."

"What are you doing?"

"Never have visitors, sure as hell don't wan'em, don't know why he came here," Bobby muttered, snatching the map from the table as there was a knock on the door. The map slid from his fingers.

"He has no idea what you do, does he?" Dean casually leaned in the doorway of the study, his coffee still in hand. Seemed today was turning out to be pretty entertaining after all.

"You know we'll never get all this cleared in time," Sam added as a pile of volumes were thrust at him. He grunted and tried to hang on to the books.

Another knock. "Uh, yeah, hang on!" Bobby called out.

"Bobby, let it go. Keep him in the den. We'll serve him nice cake-things on doilies." Dean smirked. This was too fun.

"Screw you," Bobby spat nervously. He set his armful of books in a chair and rubbed his hands on his legs. "I guess you're right, Sam. This is a lost cause."

"Bobby, it's okay," Sam tried to soothe as he set down his load. "I thought you two were friends?"

"Ham radio. Cell phone. Never actually met." Bobby took a steadying breath and walked straight-legged to the door, where he took another deep breath before pulling it open.

"Christ, you'd think it was a first date or something," Dean muttered to Sam as he walked past.

Sam elbowed him. "Shut up," he said, behind a grin.

The open door revealed Tyler turning from the view of the yard to face the elder hunter. He smiled. "Bobby Singer?"

Bobby swallowed visibly and stuck his hand out. "Tyler Johnson. Never thought I'd see you here."

Dean hid a smirk behind his hand, and earned a thump on his shoulder from Sam.

"Been checking out the damage, thought I'd come see how you fared," Tyler said, pulling his hands from his pockets and catching Bobby's in a firm grip.

"We're still here. Uh, come in, I – guess." Bobby opened the door wider and stepped back, letting Tyler in. The meteorologist bent to pick up a briefcase that had fallen against his leg, and entered.

Dean followed Tyler's gaze as the new arrival looked around the place. Imitation gas lights hung on the walls. The furniture was clean, if worn. Books could just be seen stacked in the next room, along with clippings on the walls. Bobby saw Tyler glance that way, and abruptly stepped in front of him. "Beer?" he asked. "Or tea? I, uh, I brewed some tea."

"Just water's fine, this heat's killing me." Tyler smiled and made himself comfortable on the sofa. "Sam. Dean. Didn't expect to see you boys here, thought you'd be headed back to school." He threw an arm over the back of the sofa and grinned.

Dean cleared his throat and looked at Sam. "The storms kept us in."

"Right." Tyler continued to grin.

Bobby returned with a tall glass of water, and three open beers. He passed the drinks around, took the seat across from Tyler, and sat stiffly.

Tyler sipped his water, and smiled. "Don't get outside visitors much, do you? I'm sorry, I should of called."

"Nah." Bobby made a show of dismissing the statement with a hand wave, and hid in a generous swallow from the long-necked bottle.

"So I guess they let you out of the office in exceptional circumstances?" Dean asked, perching on the arm on the other end of the sofa. Sam hovered close by, his own bottle in hand.

"I didn't even bother to ask. I just left. Was going to Wyoming, as you know, but circumstances being what they are – " He shrugged. "I have to get back, but I wanted to come up here and check on you guys."

"That's quite a drive," Bobby said mildly.

"And – I wanted to see the two of you again." Tyler leaned forward. "I wanted to ask you about your 'theories'. Make any headway?"

"Haven't really had time," Dean said lightly.

"Well, I have. Take a look at this." He opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheath of paper, flipped through it, and pulled out three sheets. "Tell me what you think."

Dean took the paper. "What is it?"

"Storm tracks."

Dean nodded lightly as he placed his bottle to his lips. The motion slowed, then stopped. "It looks like. . .they're all coming from one place." He gave Tyler a questioning glance.

"That's right. It's like they're popping up out of the ground, then spreading chaos everywhere."

Sam took the papers handed to him, then passed them to Bobby. "Anything unusual about this area?" he asked.

"Nope. Not a damn thing that I can see. You know, I'd of thought these things would have formed from that energy burst in Wyoming, but I supposed that only fueled the atmosphere. Oddly enough, there hasn't been any sort of activity there since. Now here," he pointed to the map that Bobby was holding, "the energy patterns varied for a bit, then dissipated when the storms scattered. Almost like it was a single mass of energy that organized itself, then dispersed."

"Like troops," Sam muttered.

"Sorry?" Tyler asked, as Bobby jumped up. He excused himself and hurried to his study.

Sam watched him, then turned to Tyler, his mouth opened for an explanation, obviously itching to follow Bobby. Dean gave a subtle shake of his head, stopping him.

"So anyway," Tyler said over the back of the sofa, his voice carrying into the other room, "I've had a hell of a time back in the office. People getting all worked up, forgetting their jobs, snapping at each other. I mean, I know it's tense, but at least try to act professional, you know? Even Sharice was ready to jump down Bill's throat, and that ain't like her. So I thought about it, and realized the worst of it was when the storms were in the vicinity. Tension, I thought. Right? But now I don't think so." He shifted his attention to Sam and Dean.

"Why?" Sam asked obediently.

Tyler straightened in his chair. "You know your bible, son?" he asked.

"Somewhat," Sam replied cautiously.

Tyler nodded. "O my God," he quoted,

Make them like a wheel; as the stubble before the wind.

As the fire burneth a wood, and as the flame setteth the mountains on fire;

So persecute them with thy tempest, and make them afraid with thy storm.

Fill their faces with shame; that they may seek thy name, O LORD."

He gave a single nod. "Psalms eighty-three."

Dean lowered his bottle from his lips, nearly choking. He blinked in astonishment. "You a meteorologist or a priest?"

"I dabble."

Dean raised his chin in faint acknowledgment. "Right. So, what, you think God is making these storms just to piss us off?"

"I think there's more to these storms than meets the eye. I know something happened, and I know that you men are in the thick of it. And I'm telling you," Tyler leaned forward, "I can help."

"Tyler, look," Sam started, but Tyler jumped up.

"No. Don't say it, I've had enough dismissal. Something in my gut says there's something wrong," a noise turned him, "what the hell is he doing back there?" He rose and aimed for the study.

"Tyler, wait!" Sam reached out to stop him, but Tyler pushed past.

"Bobby, what the. . ." his eyes took in a single symbol on the cover of the book Bobby was holding. One single thing; one single, small thing. "Oh, no. Bobby, no."

Bobby looked up, surprised. His eyes visibly registered Tyler's astonishment, and his pain. "Now Tyler, it's not what you think," he said, quietly, setting down his book.

Tyler raised his eyes heavenwards in disbelief, and saw the newly etched demon trap on the ceiling. "What in God's name is that thing?"

"Ever heard of the Key of Solomon?" Sam asked in an apologetic tone.

"Solomon had nothing to do with it." Tyler was slowly backing out of the room.

"We had to touch it up a bit," Dean added, entering the room.

Tyler looked like he had been slapped. "What on earth are you into, Bobby?"

Bobby walked quickly around his desk. "Listen, Tyler, we've been talking for years on the radio. You've saved my ass several times when I've been too pig-headed to pay attention to what's going on around here. I know we really don't know each other beyond a name, but can't you at least give me the benefit of the doubt?"

"You a Satanist?" Tyler looked ready to run for his bible.

Dean'd had enough. No way was he going to let some dude in just so he could preach and rattle his friend. He slammed his bottle on a nearby table and rounded on Tyler. "Okay, look, you want us to be frank with you? You really want to know what's going on? 'Cause I'll tell you right now, just like you're sick of being dismissed? I'm sick of being labeled a freak. I'm tired of acting like nothing's going on, especially when someone is smart enough to understand it.

"You really want to know what's going on? Bad things. Bad shit that'll make your nuts curl and crawl back up inside your body. That what you want to hear? Are you really ready for this? This ain't no Sunday picnic riding through the countryside looking for a photo op. This is serious." Dean pointed to Bobby. "Talking about saving asses, that man had saved ours more times than we can count. Hell, he's probably saved yours and you don't even know it. So cut him some slack and ask yourself, again, if you _really _want to know what's going on."

Tyler blinked heavily. He pulled himself to his full height, which was an inch over Dean. "He's saved me," he repeated flatly.

"You bet your ass."

"You ever ask who's gonna save him? Or you?"

"I am," Sam said evenly.

Dean turned and looked at Sam. There was such an earnest expression on his face, such complete trust, that Dean faltered. He found he couldn't pull his eyes from it, such was his need for it to be true.

"You're all insane." Tyler backed away. "Now I know why I had misgivings about coming here. Don't drag me into this."

"But a minute ago you were begging to be a part of it!" Sam exclaimed.

"I've no desire to do the Devil's work!" Tyler yelled.

Dean grabbed Tyler's arm. "Those storms _are_ the Devil's work," he hissed. "What if you're meant to help stop it?"

Tyler pulled away slowly. "What the – boy, what are you talking about?"

"We're gonna need a truck."

But Tyler was backing away, shaking his head. "No. Look, I'm sorry I asked, really."

Sam wasn't letting him leave. Dean stepped aside as Sam approached the stricken man. He watched closely, not sure what Tyler's confusion might lead him to do. "You said yourself that there's more to these storms, Tyler," Sam said. "You said people were tense."

"Entire communities were wiped out! Of course they were tense!"

But Sam pressed on. "The energy surge in Wyoming? You were right."

"Sam, let him go." Bobby looked up sternly from the book he had resumed reading.

Dean watched as Sam fought a battle within himself, then gave a single nod.

"I gotta get back," Tyler muttered. He walked to the door, then paused. "Keep your ears on tonight, huh?" he asked of them, his eyes fixed straight ahead. "This crap ain't over with."

"See ya, Tyler." Bobby followed him from his study. His expression softened. "It _is_ good to meet you. Finally."

Tyler slowly turned and looked at him. Took in the state of the room behind him as conflicting emotions crossed his face. "I really like you, Bobby. Always have. I wish you luck with this. And I wish you'd get yourself out of it."

Bobby chuckled. "From your mouth to God's ears."

"Yeah, well. We'll see." His cell phone beeped, and he fished it out, muttering. "Crap. S'cuse me – Hello? Oh, hey Sharice. Yeah, I'm heading back now." He faced the door, only to freeze with his hand on the doorknob. "What?" he asked softly.

Dean raised his chin, and carefully reached out to alert Sam, who was following Bobby back to his study. He noticed Bobby stopped as well when Tyler's hand released the doorknob and reached to brace himself on the frame.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice low with shock. "My god, Sharice. Yeah, yeah, I'm heading back now." He closed his phone, then became aware of the men looking at him. He slowly looked over his shoulder. "That was a colleague of mine. Roy, he works with us in back, he was caught in the storms. They – found his body in a field."

"Shit," Bobby muttered, and Dean closed his eyes.

Sam took a few steps forward. "Do you need someone to drive you back there?" he asked gently.

"What? _No_, no, I'm fine. But I have to get back, this is – this is bad." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I have to go."

"Tyler. You call us if you need anything," Bobby said to his back. There was an absent nod, and the door closed.

The men filed into Bobby's study. Any jokes Dean wanted to make about the visit was subdued by Tyler's news. "Bobby, how well do you know Tyler?" he asked.

"Like I said before. Been talking a few years on the radio. Kept saying we were going to meet up, but never did until now."

"Because you don't like visitors," Sam said.

"If visitors are anything like you two hanging around, no." Bobby slapped some papers down on his desk, and sighed. "His mom died a while back, she was the last of his family, far as I know. He never talks about anyone else unless they work with him. Goes to church a lot, has some friends there, that's it. Wasn't much of a church-goer before, but he had a heart-attack. It scared the crap out of him."

Dean nodded, recalling Sam's words from the previous night. _So what, you get stuck in a chair and find religion? That your new hobby now? _So cruel, but it happened. People getting scared into believing. Going all old testament.

"Bobby, about what he said," Sam started.

"Forget it. He'll come around. One thing I do know about him is that he's a reasonable guy. Another thing is that he's too damned curious for his own good." Bobby pointed. "Now look here. This is what he had on file. These are the old tracks. Different points of origin for these storms. But still relatively localized."

"What about the other storms?" Dean asked. "California, Hawaii, such as that?"

"Don't know. Could be coincidence, but I don't think so."

"Does there have to be one point of origin? Can't we just go to this place," he winced at the name, "River Run, and see what's out there?"

"Help if we had a truck," Dean muttered.

"Probably should. But for now I wanna get this roof fixed in case by some miracle it does decide to rain. Give Tyler time to cool off, and maybe we can get one of those trucks of his."

"Wait, wait, look." Sam pointed. "This last set of storms actually formed over extreme Eastern Wyoming." He studied the paper.

"So?" Dean asked.

"So, that's where the possession was. And look at the track."

Dean walked around and leaned over Sam's shoulder, following the track with his finger. "It goes up to Dale's place," he said quietly. The thought sunk its way in. "You really think these storms are causing this?"

"I think the storms are a result of it," Sam replied. "I have for a while."

"You never said that before. I mean, using it to track demons, sure, but making them?" He shook his head, and looked up as Bobby walked out of the room. "All this energy that was released from hell is causing all this?"

"All of the energy we released had to go somewhere. Tyler said storms are nature's way of restoring balance, that something big had to happen to create storms of this magnitude. We've suspected a correlation, and now we've got the proof."

"We caused this." Dean straightened. "Opening that damn gate. Not only did it let those demons out, it upset the world balance or something." His brows lifted. "Man. That's big. I mean, even for us."

"Yeah. I bet – I bet," Sam stood and paced, unable to contain his feelings, "if we got those trucks and found the source of these storms, we'd find a of a lot of those demons we released from hell."

"But why would they stay together? Why not spread out if they're all about world domination and all that crap?"

Sam frowned. "You know, oddly enough I don't remember anyone saying they want to take over the world. I think they're just acting in their nature. Either way, some did spread out. Remember those other storms?" He paused. "I think this is the army."

Dean's head turned, and he fixed Sam with a grim look. "Sam, please tell me this is all a joke. Tell me this has nothing to do with you, dammit, tell me that yellow-eyed son of a bitch was wrong!"

The tone of his voice spoke volumes, and he knew it. The subtle reference to the previous day's events carried in the air, blanketed by Dean's worry. Sam's words didn't comfort him. "Dean, I don't know."

"It's dead, Sam! That whole fucking prophecy, it doesn't matter anymore!"

"There are demons out there right now, Dean!" Sam braced his palms on Bobby's desk and leaned over it. "You know as well as I do where they came from, you've known how to track them, and every time you act like you've got a stick up your ass that's pinning you to the wall! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? You're the one trying to kill everything at the drop of a hat! You're the one going around like some sort of fucking Bruce Willis knock-off! For the past two weeks you've done nothing but obsess about finding that demon and rectifying this deal, but I'm telling you it ain't gonna happen! Okay? So give it up already!"

"I can't!"

Dean was in Sam's face. "Oh yeah? Why?"

"_Because you're my brother_! Because I swear to god I would die if anything happened to you, okay!"

"Oh yeah? I nearly did when it happened to you!"

Both men were breathing heavily, all of their angered words searing through the air, tearing into each other, feeding on raw emotion. Sam was blinking back tears, and Dean was trying hard not to. They watched each other, each seeing the other's heart trying to beat it's way out. Seeing the the blazing eyes.

Everything slowed. The tension eased, just a bit. Fists unclenched. Sam let himself sniff, once, and let his eyes fall. A movement caught their attention, and they turned as one.

Bobby had returned, and was standing in the doorway. Dean straightened as Bobby took in their tension, and just shook his head. "Did the two of you not hear me the other day?" There was no response other than an embarrassed silence. "Come get this ladder, then." Bobby started to leave, but paused to say over his shoulder, "Oh, by the way. Check out Devils Tower on that laptop of yours when you're done."

Sam and Dean just looked at each other. A short time later, the roof repairs began.


	9. Chapter 9

The men were exhausted. Dean's wrist was wrapped again, despite his protests. Sam just laid into him about how he had unwrapped it too early to begin with, that he was using it too much. Dean's retort of, "Come on, I'm just hammering and saving your ass from demons, how's that using it too much?"was met with a frustrated tackle onto the couch. With only one good hand, Dean found himself victim to two good arms and Sam's weight advantage, and could only muffle "Uncle" into the cushions smashing his face. He was still bruised and sore from the demon encounters, and more so from a day working on the roof, which of course explained Sam's getting the better of him. "So sprain it again, why don'tcha? Bitch!" Because there was no way his little brother would have bested him otherwise.

"Jerk."

Self-absorbed punk. Dean shoved him away.

Sam didn't escape injury himself. He actually hammered his thumb, twice, no less, and had four band-aids wrapped around the injury. There was a blood-blister growing underneath the nail. It would be purple for weeks.

Bobby had stayed below as they worked, yelling helpful instructions that weren't really helpful after all for two guys balancing on an old, teetering roof, armed with deadly implements. Dean threatened use of the salt gun against whatever force was making the nails pop back out of the shingles for no good reason at all.

Dinner was late, low-key, and delicious. Dean wanted nothing more than to just stay in that moment and stuff his face until the sun exploded.

Their dinner table non-conversation was interrupted by Bobby's phone. He coughed lightly, wiped his mouth, and rose to answer it. "'Lo?" There was a pause, and his brows shot up. "Sure, I guess so." Another pause. "I know, it's hard on everyone I guess. Yeah, I'll let you know. See ya, Tyler." He hung up and returned to the table, saying nothing. Lightning flashed in the distance, highlighting his face.

Dean was getting damned tired of storms.

"He wants to apologize. In person." Bobby looked at his empty plate for a moment before carrying it to the sink.

"Is he coming here?" Sam asked.

"Be here in less than a hour if the storm stays away."

Dean's brow's quirked. "Huh. This should be interesting. No frantic cleaning spree?" He slapped his napkin onto the table.

"Sam, you've got dish duty." Bobby retired to his office.

"The man seriously needs to invest in some paper plates," Sam muttered.

Dean watched his brother collect the silverware in one hand and toss all but one fork into the sink. "So you think Tyler really wants to apologize? Or you think he's come to thump his bibles upside our heads?"

"Does it matter?" Sam used the fork to scrape the few leftovers into the trash can and let the plate clatter into the sink.

"Don't guess so." Dean rose with his own plate, sliding chicken bones into the can. He set the plate on the counter. "Just like to know what to expect, that's all."

"With what we do? Expect the unexpected."

"What commercial is that from?"

"Can't remember."

Sam seemed tense. Dean moved the dishes to one side of the sink, and ran water in the other. "You tired?" he asked casually.

"Aren't you?"

"Yeah, a bit." He considered helping to wash, or dry, but sat down instead.

Sam noticed. "You gonna help?"

"My wrist hurts."

"Figures."

"Don't you think I should rest it in case I need it later?"

"That sort of activity requires the use of only one hand, Dean. I think you're okay."

Dean threw a towel at him, and left the room.

*****************************

Tyler arrived an hour later with two large three-ring binders underneath his arm. "Bobby," he said tentatively, and cautiously walked in when the older man stepped aside.

He looked tired. Dean leaned against the wall, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, and gave a nod when Tyler looked at him. Sam was the most forthcoming of them, reaching out to shake Tyler's hand, though his face showed that he wasn't exactly putting down the welcome mat.

"Seems I've done a number on you boys," Tyler said, sitting down. He looked at Bobby, and sighed deeply. "Listen. I think maybe I acted a bit hastily. It's my nature. Not bad if I have a correct hunch about something, but other than that I just tend to cause trouble."

"We're sorry about your co-worker," Sam said quietly.

Tyler looked up. "Yeah. Thanks." He sighed again and leaned back. "I had time to think while I was heading down there. Had even more time to think on the way back. You guys are in the thick of this, I can see that, but it doesn't mean what you're doing is bad." He chuckled. "Hell, I'm a scientist. I may be a man of faith, but I trust my science, and my science says what's happening ain't normal. So when my science lets me down, I go back to my faith. My gut instinct. And that says to stick with you guys." He stared at Sam. "You okay, son?"

"Sure." Sam shrugged the question off, but Dean saw his jaw tense.

"You just look a little pale, there."

"I'm fine." His eyes found Dean's, and held. Dean wasn't certain how to read the message Sam was trying to send.

That bothered him.

Tyler continued. "I'm gonna lay it all out for you guys. Let you see what I have, and maybe you'll let me in on your search here, and we can solve this thing together, whatd'ya say?" He leaned forward and slammed the binders onto the coffee table.

The men gathered around as Tyler opened the binders, flipping through thick pages before settling on two black and white graphs. "Barometric pressure," he said, and pointed, then pointed to Devils Tower. "You familiar with this place? There's a low surface area here. Now look at this." He flipped through the binder closest to him and presented a colored graph. "These storms are popping up everywhere, right? Check out this low pressure system." He pointed to Wyoming. "Now in Wichita. Severe thunderstorm produces several tornadoes. At the same time, the pressure over Devils Tower rises significantly, then lowers again. Kansas City, the same. Milwaukee, the same. Andover. Down into Texas. Every time there is a storm, this low pressure system rises."

"What's that mean?" Dean asked

Tyler looked up. "A low barometric reading means storms. The lower the reading, the more intense the storm. The low pressure system rises significantly when these storms develop." He hesitated. "I think this system is actively feeding these storms."

"Like an energy transfer?" Dean rubbed his chin thoughtfully, eyes on the graphs.

Tyler nodded. "Now there is going to be some variance anyway, but this thing is almost acting like a pump. The extremes are too – look, here's the deal. I want to take the van out there. It has more than just the Doppler, good stuff we can use. I want good, close readings. I want to feel the change."

Something told Dean that there was no question he would feel it.

"The activity's greater at night," Tyler concluded. "We've got time. I know chasing storms at night is a big no-no, but these are exceptional circumstances, right?"

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm about ready for a Hail Mary myself," Dean said. He tapped his finger on the table, then looked up. "You've really got the van here?"

"Brought it as a peace offering." Tyler smiled. "I'll ready her up."

"Thanks, Tyler." Bobby gave him a nod of genuine gratitude, one that Tyler returned before snatching up his binders. "They'll be out in a minute."

Dean waited until Tyler was outside before turning to Bobby. "You mentioned Devils Tower earlier. Why that place?"

Bobby walked back to his office where his map lay on the table. "Been noticing the activity there, so I looked it up. It's long been sacred to the Native Americans," Bobby replied. "They've performed all sort of ritualistic activity there, from funerals to vision quests."

"So you're saying it's basically a mecca for metaphysical energy."

"That's it in a nutshell."

"Then why wasn't the Hell-gate there?" Sam asked.

"Some of those rituals are purification rituals. The land is sacred."

"And yet, there be demons there!" Dean exclaimed mockingly.

"I'm just saying the land wouldn't support a Hell-gate," Bobby cut back. "Now free-standing demons and spirits, sure."

"Lovely." Dean faced Sam, who was frowning at a distant spot on the floor. Like he was listening for something. "Sammy?"

"Huh?" Sam snapped back. "Sorry, I was just thinking."

Dean felt the tension between his eyes, the beginnings of a headache. "Yeah, well, don't burn out your brains cells just yet. We may need them."

"Har-har. Are we going, or not?"

Dean looked at Bobby, and gestured with a small shrug. "You wanna tag along?"

"No, thanks. I'll hold down the fort on this end. You boys don't stay out too late, okay?"

"I'll tell our date to have us back by midnight." Dean winked. He unwrapped his wrist, ignoring Sam's curses, suddenly feeling light, and happy. He headed out to the van as Sam muttered something about "boys and their toys" behind him. Please. Like he wasn't excited.

Dean grinned.

********************************

"This is sweet. I mean, this is better than sweet, this is just. . .this is sweet." Dean popped on an earpiece. "You read me there, Tyler?"

Tyler glanced back from the driver's seat. "I can hear you fine, Dean. Take off the radio."

"Man," Dean complained lightly.

His brother really was like a kid in a candy store. They'd been on the road for half an hour before Tyler gave them some idea of what to start looking for on the screens that filled the van. Both listened with devout attention, and called out the occasional readings when asked. Tyler adjusted his course accordingly. He drove like a madman, especially for someone that had so much valuable equipment in his possession. Sam hoped it was due to excitement, and braced himself in the specially mounted single seat. The two seats sat just off-center, surrounded by monitors. It was a tight fit, to say the least.

Sam fought the urge to knock Dean's hands away from the controls. "Shouldn't you just look at the monitor?" he asked.

"Untwist your boxers. This is prime stuff here! Dusty never had it this good."

"Dusty?"

"Dusty! D-man! Dud, didn't you see 'Twister'?"

"That the movie with the flying cows?"

"Don't get me started on that movie." Tyler said over his shoulder. "I could point out a hundred things wrong with it in the first half-hour alone."

"Then keep your mouth shut. I love that movie." Dean reached out, and this time Sam did slap at his hand.

"Seriously, do I need to tie you to a seat?" he asked. Dean just waggled his brows. Sam sighed and shook his head. "You're impossible."

"Just getting the feel of things, Sammy." But his concentration focused on the screen in front of him as the image changed.

"I'm going to pull off here in a minute so I can set up," Tyler said. "You got anything yet?"

"Yeah. This red bar that you said should be moving up, is moving up."

"Fantastic!" Sam jerked up in surprise at Tyler's yell, and wondered why _he_ didn't feel more excited to be in the van. He braced himself, wondering if he was the only sane driver left in the world as the van curved dangerously to stop on the side of the road.

Tyler parked and pushed through the equipment to stand behind Dean. "Lemme see. Aaah," he growled in frustration, "no offense to you boys, but I wish I had someone here who knew what they were doing. I mean this line," he pointed to a higher screen, "not this one." He gestured to the one that Dean had been studying.

"Tyler." Sam had turned to look at the radar behind him. "This is what they show on tv, right?"

"NEXRAD. What's up?" Tyler leaned over Sam's shoulder, staring at splotches of red. "Holy mother of god."

"How far away is that?"

"Not close enough. Better find those seatbelts, they're tucked in around those chairs someplace."

"Well, this can't be good," Dean muttered, spinning in his seat and looking for the belt.

Sam grinned and found it dangling behind the seat. He snatched it up before Dean could grab it, and buckled it tight around his brother's hips. "Told ya you'd have to be tied to a chair."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean jerked his thumb back towards Sam's chair, his eyes riveted to the screen in front of him.

Sam fell into his seat as Tyler banked a steep curve. He fumbled with the belt and pulled it tight.

"How many storms?" Tyler called out.

"Uh," Sam squinted at the monitor, "in what area?"

"Are you serious?"

"I mean there's the one in front of us, one to the east, two more looks like north-north east. Smaller cells."

"I want big ones."

Sam glanced quickly at a map that was haphazardly taped to the side of the van, barely visible behind the mechanical setup. "Keep going. You'll see it."

"Sam." Dean glanced over his shoulder. "Don't get any funny ideas out here, okay?"

Sam checked in puzzlement at the sudden seriousness of Dean's tone. "What?"

"I'm just saying. Watch your back."

"Yeah," Sam returned in a low voice, his brows drawn tight. "You too." He recognized the look in Dean's eyes. He was the hunter again. He was on the attack. Something had registered in that quick mind of his, something that Sam obviously hadn't caught, and there was no time for Dean to explain it to him.

The van shuddered, and Tyler yelled out, "Sam! I thought you said that thing wasn't near here!"

Sam felt his chest constrict. He forced a breath through tight lungs. "It isn't. What was that?"

"Dean?"

"I got nothin'!" Dean called back.

Tyler cursed and pulled over once more. He unbuckled his belt, grabbing the back of his seat as the van knocked again. "Let me see." He peered over Dean's shoulder. "I don't get it." He turned in a crouch and slid open the side door.

Sam unbuckled his belt and knelt behind Dean. "What is it?" His brother looked tense. Sam knew that look. If Dean had a gun on him, it would be pulled and ready, aimed at the door. He glanced around and found the ever-present duffel stashed in the corner.

"I don't know," Dean muttered, slinging his unfastened seat-belt to the side. "But I'm telling you, Sam. I don't like this. I don't like this a bit."

"Dean, look to your right," Tyler called into the van. "Should be a small black screen. Flip the control underneath it."

"What's that do?"

"Activates the Doppler. Now watch that screen."

Despite his confession, Dean grinned. "Ginormous freakin' EMF detector," he said, flipped the switch. "Tyler, get in here! What am I looking at?"

Sam felt himself being pushed aside as Tyler leaned over Dean's left shoulder. He took the opportunity to lean over Dean's right, and stared at a radar image that almost stared back. Colors blended with each sweep. He wasn't sure what he was looking at. "Doesn't look like this on television," Dean said.

"No," Tyler responded in a low voice. "That's because these ain't normal readings. That's – that's not normal. My God." He backed away, shaking his head.

Sam nodded. There was no doubt now that they were looking at a huge burst of electromagnetic energy. Consolidated energy. Moving, living energy, the colors pulsating with each breath.

It watched them from the screen.

Dean pushed back out of his seat and forced his way past the two men. Sam followed, ducking and jumping lightly out of the van. He instantly careened his head upwards, scanning the dark skies.

Thunder rumbled deeply, emerging from the belly of a beast.

Sam swallowed hard and winced, blinking rapidly. The air filled with a sulfuric smell, and Tyler grabbed his arm. "Get back in the van!" he yelled.

Sam felt the bolt before he heard it, though the events were near simultaneous. He was thrown to his back, his ears ringing, sight blinded. His chest, god, his chest had ripped open, he was burning, his body was flame-tipped agony and dark and heavy, god, so heavy! He wanted to scream, wanted Dean, wanted to live. A gasp shot through him and he choked on it. Tendrils of pain curled around every fiber, and yet he was frozen. He couldn't make a sound. And he heard a voice, deep in his mind.

_Welcome, brother_.

Hands grabbed at him and it hurt, god_damn_ it hurt, his head had exploded, or was going to. His body was jerked sickeningly, and landed on something that was softer than the ground he'd been on. Voices yelled, begged at him, but he couldn't place it. In the distance, something else caught his attention, and he focused on it.

It was a face. It was a face he knew, one he had seen before, but he had no idea where. The face gaped at him. It was terrifying.

_You've come._

"Who are you?" Sam knew he wasn't talking, he couldn't, he couldn't get the words out through the pain –

_You know me._

"No."

_You've been looking for me. _A flash of red.

Sam's breath quickened. "You're the crossroads demon. The Dealmaker."

There was no shape, no form, other than the barest impression of eyes in the dark. His soul felt heavy, weighed down with the paw of a beast that suddenly stood over him. He hadn't realized he was back on the ground, the earth pulling at him. Sam tried to rise, but he couldn't move.

_I am._

"Then you're right," Sam forced out. "I have been looking for you."

_You wish to strike a deal._

"Let my brother go." Sam pushed at the paw that held him down, he couldn't even see what it was attached to, but he could feel the heat of rancid breath, and he was afraid.

_In exchange for?_

"Your life."

The demon laughed. Sam wasn't surprised, but he wasn't prepared, he wasn't ready for this, and it angered him. His anger countered the fear, and he suddenly found himself on his feet in the strange mist with a sword in hand. Where the sword had come from, he didn't know, but he leveled it at huge eyes which floated just in front of him. "Release him from this," Sam said, and his voice dripped like silver. The sword glinted.

_The decision is not mine to make._

"Bullshit!" Sam tightened his grip.

_There's another that pulls those strings. It's out of my hands. Besides, that's not why you are here._

Sam faltered. He blinked in disbelief. "What?"

The eyes morphed into a form, a glistening shape that darkened and pulled into a human. There was still no face. _It's time, Sam. Take your place._

"What are you talking about?" Sam practically yelled.

_You know the real reason you're here. You can feel it in your soul. Boy King._

Sam remembered the crushing weight on his chest, right over his heart, and he ran at the demon. "You son of a bitch!"

_That's all you can say?_

Sam snarled and pressed the tip of his sword into a suddenly visible chest.

_Oh, come now Sam. You'd kill your brother?_

"I'm _saving_ my brother."

_You insolent child. I'm not talking about Dean._

Sam's face hardened, then crumpled as his expression fell, as the meaning of the demon's words suppressed him. The sword lowered by degrees. He couldn't breathe.

The demon hovered. _The blood, Sam. We're as related as you and Dean, and yet you slaughter us._

"You're not my brother!"

_Blood doesn't lie. You kill us, your own kind. You kill them, those that you consider yours. You're nothing but a cold killer, Sam._

"No," he whispered in agony, falling to his knees.

The demon knelt down before him. _Tell me, Sam. How does it feel to betray two families at the same time?_

"NO!" Sam screamed again, and stood in one swift movement. The sword plunged deep into the demon's chest.

The demon looked down at the metal protruding from his ribs. He smirked. _Deal's off._

"Sam!"

Sam screamed around the breath that rush in and scorched his lungs. Hands gripped him tightly. He felt fingers run frantically through his hair, and he was pulled forward into a stout body, against a rapid heartbeat. He felt the vibration of speech in his chest before he was pushed back. The hand stroked his hair again, cupped his cheek, and Dean's face sharpened before him. "Sam!"

"Dean." God, his throat – his throat was on fire.

"Oh, thank god. Christ, Sammy – I thought – Christ." Dean pulled him close again, held him, then released him, letting his hands fall to Sam's thighs. "You scared the shit out of me, you know that?"

"Runs – in the family,"Sam choked out, and blinked. He was sitting in his chair in the van. His belt was on, but Dean was crouched in front of him, bracing himself by holding on to Sam's legs as the van swerved.

"He okay back there?" Tyler called back.

"What happened?" Sam asked.

"I don't know." Dean sounded shaken. "Lightning, only it wasn't, really. At least I don't think so, I don't know what it was, but it came at you and knocked right into your chest. You stopped breathing. Had to kiss you, dude, do that whole mouth-to-mouth thing, don't know which was worse. You just lying there, or your breath." Dean's smile was shaky, and Sam was confused.

"I said is he okay?" Tyler asked again.

"Yeah, I think so," Dean called back, and his wide eyes returned to Sam.

_He thinks so? What he hell does he know?_ Sam narrowed his eyes at his brother, who mistook the gesture for pain. "Hey, I gotcha, we'll get you checked out as soon as we can, okay?"

"I wasn't struck," Sam muttered.

"What?"

Sam marveled for a moment at his brother's ability to take what Sam said at face value. "It was the storm. It wanted to know who I was."

"_What?_"

"Jesus, Dean, cut it out already!" Sam rubbed at his face then pushed at him, needing space.

Dean leaned in and lowered his voice. "No, I mean what are you talking about? That storm."

He was too close, too close. "I said it wanted to know who I was."

"Storms aren't sentient, Sam."

"This one is."

Dean just looked at him for a long moment, apparently at a loss for words. It made Sam want to laugh.

Then again, that stupid expression on his face made Sam want to throttle him.

"Okay. Okay, look, you just sit there and rest. Got it?" Dean didn't believe him. His own brother didn't believe him. After everything they've been through and seen, he didn't believe him.

It was the last time Dean Winchester would doubt him. He'd see to that.

The rage came. His eyes hardened into diamonds. He could feel it happening, actually feel the sensation of his irises tightening. He heard Tyler yell, felt the van veer to the side, saw Dean slam back against the console that housed the controls for the Doppler. And he saw Dean look towards the front, and gasp.

There was a man on the windshield, looking calmly into the van.

Tyler yelled again, yanking the steering wheel from side to side, apparently unsure whether to stop or try and shake the vision of death from staring at him.

The van swerved.

****************

The squeal of tires had faded, and all was silent except for the steady heartbeat of equipment. After another moment, there was a sound of shuffling. Dean winced, finding himself on the floor, then snapped into focus at the sound of a seat belt clicking open. He saw Sam step over him, heading for the door, and grabbed Sam's ankle in a moment of panic. His head jerked back with the smack of a fist.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean palmed the injury, suddenly almost too alert as he bolted upright, grabbing at Sam. "Wait a minute, you can't just barrel out there!"

"What is it?" Tyler asked blearily from the front, regaining his senses. He rubbed his head and took in the situation, which pushed him to alertness.

"It's Sam," was all Dean could get out before Sam's head snapped around. Dark eyes glistened at Dean, and he was shoved back. The door slid open, and Sam was out.

Tyler opened his own door and jumped out, tackling Sam, saying something about the dead. Dean couldn't understand him, and it didn't matter. Something was seriously wrong, and he pushed himself out of the van just as Sam rolled Tyler off of him and gave him a punch that made Dean's eyes water in sympathy. Sam looked back at him, and took off into the night.

"Sam!" What the hell – Dean rushed to Tyler's side and turned him over gently. The man groaned, stunned from the impact. "Hey. You're okay, I'll be right back. Okay? Don't move." Dean patted the man's shoulder and took off after his brother.

The area was dense with growth. Dean forced himself through the brush, tripping several times as the vines caught at his boots while his body kept going. Soon enough he was running, swiping aside low-hanging branches as the area around him slowly cleared. "Sam?" He skidded to a stop, circling, looking for a sign of his brother's presence. "Sam! Come on," Dean muttered, and took off again in a random direction, but with less assurance. He'd been running for several minutes when he felt a weight slam into him from behind, knocking him to the ground. He coughed, air crushed from him, and was flipped over to see hard, glittered eyes peering down into his, firmly set over a grin that belonged to a shark.

"Sam?" Dean breathed, and grabbed his brother's arms. They were wrenched away and pinned down beside his body. Dean looked from his left to his right, then back at Sam. "What the hell are you doing? Get the fuck off!"

Sam just snarled, then grinned again, like he had found an edible prize.

Oh, this was bad. This was so, so bad. Dean raised a shoulder, trying to pry his left arm from Sam's grip. A hand released him, only to slam the shoulder back to the ground with the force of a fifty pound weight. Dean couldn't hide the grunt. "Who are you?" he gritted out.

"I am Sam. Sam, I am!" His brother laughed, and cocked his head in glee. "You know me, Dean. Don't play dumb."He leaned over Dean, grinning like a mad dog.

Even his smell was different, more sulfurous, and when he leaned in his breath was metallic. Dean tried to press his head back, press it away, but prone on the ground as he was it just wasn't possible. "Sam," he whispered, "don't do this. Listen to me. You're possessed, some demon's got you." The corner of his mouth quirked. "So I guess the burning question is, are you a bastard or a bitch?" Dean's jaw worked as anger heated his body. "Whoever you are, you let him go!"

Sam's eyes glinted like black onyx, and his head cocked to the side in a sharp manner, slicing through the air like a knife. His fingers pressed deep into Dean's tender flesh, kneading his arms, holding him down yet trying to ease the pain. He shifted and sat square on Dean's stomach. His legs were so long that his knees propped painfully on Dean's shoulders. He was able to bend in ways that would make a normal person scream in agony, and Dean could only imagine what intense pain Sam would feel once Dean got him back. And there was no question that Dean would get Sam back, even as the demon held him down, as he spat in his face and laughed at him.

Sam leaned in. His tongue lapped quickly at Dean's ear, sending shivers of repulsion through him. "I have news for you, oh brother of mine," he whispered. "You listen, and you listen close."

Sam's eyes met Dean's. _Sam's eyes_, met Dean's. He held that gaze, those hazel-green eyes that were so like his own, a Winchester trait, and said. . .

"What makes you think I'm possessed?"

Dean stopped breathing. His blood ran cold, freezing solid. And Sam laughed, drawing back, and punched his protector over and over again.

He beat the living crap out of him.


	10. Chapter 10

There was no way in hell he could be in his body, because it didn't feel like a body. It felt like lead. He was able to open his eyes, wincing against the grit of dried tears and blood. He coughed once and nearly sobbed at the pain in his chest. Breath forced itself in and out of his lungs reluctantly, scraping up and down his torn throat. He moved his head minutely, cautiously stretched his shoulders off the ground and back again, not certain at this point if moving his arms or legs would be a good thing. He decided to wait it out, take stock of his physical state, make certain everything was still attached. The lack of pain in his arms and legs almost scared him, or was it that the rest of him hurt too much in comparison? There was another mild cough, a groan, and he forced his eyes wider, blinking away the grit since he lacked to strength to move.

Some time passed before he braved movement, lifting his head off the ground slightly and eyeing his chest. His shirt was ripped, his torso colored with bruises. No wonder breathing hurt so much. He let his head thump back lightly, and regretted it. Wiggled his fingers slightly, feeling them scrape against the ground, feeling the feathery dust stick to his grimy fingertips. Fingers curled into tame fists, which led to bent elbows, which led to arms gingerly pulled into his body, wrapped into his chest as he rolled to his side and balanced, his harsh breathing the only thing keeping his head from spinning, keeping him from blacking out. He focused on his breath, then realized it wasn't helping, that the darkness was coming. He heard one voice, his name muttered in a frantic tone, an angry curse, and felt rough hands on him before his consciousness once again gave way.

*********************

Dean opened his eyes groggily. His wrist hurt like a son of a bitch. He couldn't move it. That was the first thing he thought about, which wasn't a good sign because he was generally pretty good about ignoring pain. Even breaks, once broke, didn't phase him much, unless he was moving. That was it. He was moving, and he was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to be.

"Hey. You awake?"

Even his grogginess couldn't hide his surprise at seeing Tyler sitting beside him at the wheel.

"I said you with me?" Tyler reached out and touched his arm.

The contact shocked Dean into consciousness. His head snapped up. "Tyler?" Events tried to fight through the fog and was lost in translation. "What happened?"

"Damned if I know." He shook his head, pain carving lines across his face. "Found you out in the woods, there. Can't find Sam. I swear I looked everywhere, Dean, but I can't find him."

"We can't leave him," Dean muttered, trying to raise a hand to his head.

"That thing. . .that thing on the van, what was that? Did you see it out there? Did it do this to you?"

Too much going on. His head was buzzing. "Dammit. I don't know, Tyler. Gimme a minute, willya?" Dean grimaced and rubbed at his rib. "How'd you get the van running?"

"Stout machine."

"Well get this stout machine back there and look for Sam!"

Tyler shook his head quickly. "No. You need a hospital."

"I need my brother!"

"That thing probably already has him."

"No, it. . ." Dean shook his head gingerly, "It isn't like that."

"Look. We need help. Even if he is alive, we can't find him with you like this, you know that!"

"I do it all the time." Memory forced its way back into Dean's mind. His brother, his little brother, leaning over him and hitting him over, and over, with absolutely no regret in his dark face.

Shit.

"Just don't get it these days. And it's getting worse," Tyler was saying. "Sharice 'bout bit my head off earlier today, and she just doesn't do that. It's like a permanent full moon or something, people all going nuts." He looked sidelong at Dean. "Sam went nuts, didn't he? Jumping outta the van like that, hitting me."

Dean raised his good hand and probed at his forehead. His fingers pulled away stickily. No wonder he was dizzy. At this rate, he'd be entered in the record book for number of head injuries accumulated in a week's time. His brain should be dripping out of his ears.

"We need to get you to the ER, get them to look you over."

"No. Dammit, no! If you won't look for Sam then just take me back to Bobby's." God, he felt sick. . .

"Listen, son. . ."

Dean glared at him. "You're not hearing me. I said, no!"

"Your head's bleeding and your wrist looks the size of a tennis ball. Your shirt's ripped and your chest is about the color of my late mother's blackberry pie. We're going."

"There's no time!"

"You'll make time." Tyler glared back at him pointedly.

"I'm gonna tell you this one time and one time only, so you listen good," Dean shot daggers back with his tone, seeing the anger and shock in the other man's eyes. "Sam's in trouble."

"Dean, you've got to tell me what's going on. What's wrong with your brother?"

"I don't know."

"Whatdya mean, you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know, Tyler!" Dean yelled, and regretted it. He hit the door with his fist, trying to bottle up the fear he felt, the urge to just bawl, his eyes narrowing, keeping himself in check.

He sighed into his hand. "Please – just get us back to Bobby's."

****************************

The rest of the drive was silent. Dean's thoughts cleared enough to make him feel really, really scared, more scared than he'd ever felt in his life. Sam was possessed.

_I have news for you, oh brother of mine. What makes you think I'm possessed?_

He wasn't possessed. He was – no.

No. His brother wasn't evil. Dean refused to acknowledge the thought.

He looked over at Tyler. The man deserved much more than he was getting. He had a quirky sense of humor and an uncanny knack for piecing together a puzzle. Hell, he'd probably make a good hunter when it came down to it. He was sharp and stubborn. But he was also a man of intense faith. He even had a bible on his dashboard.

Dean gestured to it. "That so you can say your Hail Marys right before the wreck, or is something to pass the time with while they're using the jaws-of-life to pry you out?"

"There was a service before I came out here, just a little remembrance. I had it with me. You think I always drive around with a bible on the dashboard or something?"

Dean gave a semi-embarrassed half-shrug.

"Reading and driving'll kill ya," Tyler added.

"Among other things," Dean muttered.

Tyler just gave a long-suffering sigh. "I really wish you'd tell me what's going on with you people," he said.

They pulled off the road and down the dirt lane, passing carefully underneath the bent salvage yard sign. "I think you're about to find out," Dean said, reaching for the handle before Tyler had a chance to stop. There was a large shadow in the front window. Sam's gangly shadow.

Waiting.

Dean didn't want to think about how Sam got there so fast. How he got there at all.

Tyler noticed as well, and turned off the engine. "Hang on." He grabbed Dean's arm, preventing him from making a hasty exit. "I'm not gonna like what I find in there, am I?"

Dean's face softened into sympathy. "No. Stay out here."

"Should I take this bible in?" Tyler was already getting out, ignoring Dean's request.

There wasn't time to argue with him, and from what little he knew of Tyler's character, he realized telling him to stay behind was about as practical as putting a condom machine in the Vatican. "Pretty sure Bobby has a few in there."

"Well, that's good to know, at least."

"But we may not can get to them. So it wouldn't hurt." He noticed the van had better hinges than his car. The door closed silently.

They crept onto the porch, Dean signaling for silence with a finger to his lips. Adrenaline kicked in, and he felt a rush of energy that he fought to keep at bay. He shooed the older man behind him, and peeked in through a window. Nothing to see. His breath caught in his chest as the door slowly creaked open, and he heard Sam's voice.

"Dean. Finally! Where've you been?"

Tyler straightened, giving Dean a look, and was about to walk in, but Dean held him back. "Wait."

"Why?" Tyler whispered. "He's in there! Maybe he'll talk some sense into you and take to you to the damned ER!"

"That's not Sam."

"Come again?"

"Look, just trust me on this, okay? And do exactly what I say, when I say it."

Tyler gave his head a shake. "Boy, we're gonna have a long talk when this is over."

Dean managed a smirk, and creaked the door wide open. He cautiously walked in.

They were in the study, Sam and Bobby both. Sam had one hip on Bobby's desk, his arms casually folded across his chest, his face gloating. Bobby was sitting in a chair in front of him, gagged, tied. He looked right pissed. The absence of his cap lent an odd sense of vulnerability to him, like the exposed scalp was his Achilles heel.

Dean felt Tyler stop directly behind him, and Dean blocked him with his body from hurrying to Bobby's side.

Sam gave a sigh and pushed off from the desk. He walked behind it, running a finger along the books and other odd items. "Truth is, I'm surprised you made it here at all. Quite a beating, huh, Dean? Still feel like the powerful big brother? Embarrassed that the pipsqueak took you out?"

"Wait, Sam did this?" Tyler muttered in surprise.

Dean just shushed him. "Not really a pipsqueak anymore," he said out loud. "But still pretty damned obnoxious."

Sam chuckled and grinned. "Yeah, I'll take that." He picked up a pen, studied it, and flipped it over and over his fingers with extreme dexterity. That had nothing to do with the demon, that was purely a Sam gesture, one that Dean had tried to copy because seriously, the way his brother could flip pens was pretty cool. "'Course the big bad ass older brother routine gets pretty old, don't you think?" Sam continued. "All this protecting and guarding and blah blah blah," he waved a hand through the air, "don't you get tired of it? Aren't you tired of no one taking care of you?"

"I can take care of myself," Dean said, wondering where the conversation was leading.

"Sure you can. Like you did out there in that field. If what's-his-name hadn't showed, you'd of bled to death."

Dean smirked. "It wasn't that bad."

"No?" Sam actually sounded disappointed. "Then I didn't do my job, did I?" And he lunged.

The last thing Dean was expecting was another attack from his brother. He slammed against the wall and fell to the floor. The impact jarred him, and he felt himself rolled over. Sam's hands pressed down on his shoulders, and he leered at him sickly. A commotion averted Sam's attention, and he raised a gun, pulling it seemingly from thin air. "Back off!"

Tyler had taken advantage of the distraction to hurry to Bobby. He obeyed, his hands in the air as the gun targeted him.

"Sam," Dean said, and found the gun aimed in his face.

"No. No words from you." Sam rose, the gun still aimed at Dean. Dean stayed where he was, prone on the floor, eyeing Sam's every move, his every breath. The head cocked impossibly far to the left, and he cackled, then aimed the gun at Bobby.

"No!" Dean cried out, right as it clicked.

Empty.

Bobby opened his eyes, breathing heavily against the gag. Dean slowly pushed to a crouched position. He noticed the bruising over Bobby's right eye, along his cheekbone. Damn it! Bobby didn't deserve this. Hell, no one deserved this.

Sam laughed like a delighted child, then stilled. His head snapped to the other side, tilted almost to his shoulder as he listened. He craned it around, and looked at Dean. "Playtime's over," he said. "Sorry, bro. Things to do, and all that." He gave a shrug that was almost apologetic, and ran out of the room.

"No! Sam, wait!" Dean took off after him, but to his amazement, Sam was nowhere to be seen. He was gone. Just – gone.

Dean dashed from point to point in the yard but there was no sign of his brother. "Dammit!" he yelled at the darkening sky. "What the hell are you doing to him!" The thunder answered, low and trembling with power. Dean stormed out to the road, glaring at the heavens. "Where is he?" he screamed out in fury. "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"

**************************

Dean walked back in to find Bobby untied and rubbing his wrists, and Tyler red-faced with fury. "Will the two of you tell me what the hell is going on?" he insisted.

"That about sums it up," Dean muttered, cringing as his shouted words were thrown back at him.

Tyler just looked baffled, and pissed.

Well, what was he supposed to say? Men like Tyler didn't need to know the truth. They needed to sit in a church pew and consider donating to a charitable cause. Or just settle down, or get caught up in their science to the point where that was their only existence. Only, Tyler had done that, and it led him here – why wasn't he married, for Christ's sake? Why couldn't Dean just send him home to a loving wife, use his family as a tool for guilting him out of this mess? Or why couldn't he be one of those guys that just ran away when things got tough, why was he still here asking questions? Dean sighed and rubbed his own aching wrist, cringing at the swollen pain. He sagged, suddenly remembering how much breathing hurt. The adrenaline had ebbed, and he again felt the nausea take firm hold. The room swam.

"Shit," Bobby muttered, catching Dean as he tilted to the side.

Dean felt himself being steered to the couch. He didn't have time to feel embarrassed before he was laying back on cushions with Bobby peering into his face. "You okay?"

Dean winced as Bobby prodded his ribs, and felt his shirt being lifted. He heard Tyler describe how he'd found him, felt the cushions raise as Bobby ran for his medical kit.

"We have to get Sam," he muttered. Sam was gone again. . .how the hell did Sam even get back here in the first place?

He heard Tyler scoff, "You're not going anywhere," and felt the cushions give a moment later. The sting of antiseptic on his cheek jerked his focus back.

"Bobby. . ."

"Dean, listen to me," Bobby said. "To get Sam, we need you. And you can't do anything like this, now try to relax and let me fix you up."

"You sound like him!" Dean tried to glare at Tyler, who hovered over him. "This is a conspiracy." His words lacked conviction.

"While you fix him I'll call the cops," Tyler said.

"NO!" Dean rose in a flash, grabbing Tyler's wrist. "You can't."

"The hell I can't! He beat you up, didn't he? Your own brother did this to you. Cain and Abel. That's what this is."

"Sit down, Tyler. The police can't help." Bobby wrung out a cloth into a bowl of water.

"What are you talking about?"

"I said, sit down." Bobby scowled at him. "Just sit and listen."

Tyler sat on the edge of a chair, wringing his hands impatiently.

Bobby straightened and helped Dean sit up. "Take your shirt off," he said gently, and Dean complied, grunting. The bruises were dark. Prodding showed that nothing was broken. "Sam pulled his punches, looks like," he said after several minutes.

"Sure doesn't feel like it," Dean muttered. His head still swam and pounded, and his entire body ached, but he felt better than he had two hours ago.

"Still, it's good. Means he still has some measure of control, because you know he could've killed you."

"And you say not to call the cops?" Tyler asked, and stood again like that was his next course of action.

Bobby looked at him levelly. Dean tensed, waiting. "He's possessed, Tyler," Bobby said. That was it. Straightforward. "There's an evil spirit in him."

Dean didn't contest this, not yet. He watched Tyler's face with concern, seeing it flutter from humor, to disbelief, to incredulous. "Bobby Singer. What on earth have you been drinking?"

"It's true. What you saw, it isn't Sam."

"No, what I saw is some punk kid who apparently gets his kicks beating people up!"

"It's not like that!" Dean said, rising to the defense. Didn't matter the situation. No one talked about his kid brother that way.

"From where I'm standing it's very like that!"

"Then I suggest you sit down!" Bobby said sternly.

Tyler remained standing, but his posture loosened slightly.

"Look," Bobby said, "I appreciate you bringing Dean back here. We can handle this from here on out. Why don't you go back to work, and I'll give you a call."

"You'll give me a call? So, you're saying you don't need the radars? My bit is done, so you're just gonna drop me off without telling me what my services were for?"

"You know what they were for."

"I know I found something big. I know there are things going on that's even bigger. Now, you can tell me, or I'll simply follow you. I doubt you'll stop me. Better yet, I'll call the cops. They'll find your brother. You want that, or not?"

'Tell him, Bobby," Dean said quietly.

"What?"

"Trust me. He needs to know, anyway."

Bobby scrubbed at his face. "I hope you know what you're doing," he muttered.

"Oh, you're doing it. I'm backing out." Dean smiled slightly.

"Once an asshole. . ." Bobby gave a put-upon sigh, and spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "Tyler. I know you're going to find this hard to believe, but I swear to god every bit of it is true. If you're serious about this, you need to know what you're getting into. I suppose you've seen enough."

"I haven't seen enough," Tyler countered.

"Trust me, you. . ." Bobby paused, and started over. "You're a man of faith. So you know that just as there are angels among us, there are also demons. That energy source you detected in Wyoming — that was a gate that led to Hell." He let this information sink in.

Dean watched Tyler's face slowly pale. "Hell?" he asked, dubiously.

"That gate was opened. There are things walking the earth that shouldn't be here. There's a force that's been unleashed that's being sucked into the air, into the people, into everything. That's what we're fighting. That's why all these things are happening."

"A Hellgate?"

"Yep."

"A _Hellgate_?"

Bobby was losing Tyler, Dean could see it. "You know it's true," Bobby insisted. "Just stop and think about it."

"No."

"You're a scientist, for god's sake! Put the pieces together."

Dean could almost see the computations running through Tyler's head, hear the battle inside as he stood slowly. "No," he said again, this time more firmly. "I can't. I can't – my mind won't go there." He turned and walked behind the chair, then hesitated, and leaned to brace himself on the back. "Do you know how hard it was for me to have faith in anything?" he asked quietly. "I believed the world ran in an organized system. Everything lending a hand to each other. Plate tectonics. Thermodynamics. Photosynthesis. The water cycle. Everything influences everything else, everything has a reason, a scientific method. Even when I try and track tornadoes that come from a blue sky, I know there is a scientific reason for it.

"I'm no philosopher. I'm not as pragmatic as the atheists, and sure not as confused as the agnostics. I can believe in science as things being made as God intended. But this – this I can't get my head around. I read my bible, I know what it says. God made the heavens and the earth. Angels fell." He looked up. "Why is it that I can believe in God, and not the devil himself?"

"Where's hope in believing in the devil?" Dean asked quietly.

Tyler's eyes met his. Dean could feel his own thoughts reflecting off the man, but from a different standpoint. "I've told you before, and I'll tell you again," Dean said in response to the unasked question. "I've seen it. I've seen the demons, the urban legends, the dark things that would make Stephen King cry for his mama. I've seen what these things can do, and every time I had to wonder if there was really something else out there, some kind of good going on so all this – this _shit_ – would make sense.

"I have faith too, Tyler. I have faith that if I don't sleep with a knife underneath my pillow, I won't wake up. I have faith that if something bad can happen, it probably will. Faith is the result of what we see and accept. The only thing left is hope, and if you have to believe in the devil for that, rather than these so-called angels, then we're all screwed."

Dean could see that his statement had startled both men. Tyler was mulling over his words, but Bobby looked at Dean as though he'd caught a sudden glimpse into the man's soul.

_Terrific_, Dean thought. _Mental note: Next time? Shut your fucking mouth._

"Son," Tyler suddenly said, "you've seen an angel, haven't you?"

Dean's mouth worked for a moment. "My brother thought he did," he said. "But it turned out to be a spirit."

"Angels _are _spirits."

"Not this one." Dean winced and shifted so that he was sitting up. "You know what this one did? This angel? He sought revenge on the wicked. Now that sounds real poetic until you find out the way he's doing it. He's telling these innocent people to commit murder. These innocent people now have ruined lives, so where's the divine justice? Is that your idea of an angel?"

Tyler nodded thoughtfully, and walked around the chair. Dean noticed that despite the man's earlier agitation, something had calmed him. He didn't dare call it belief. "I read something once," Tyler said, "something that stuck with me, something that made me believe more in my fellow man and what they were capable of. Thomas d'Aquino asked, 'Where are the angels?'. And the answer was this: Angels are not _where_. They just are. They are where they act, where they love. You're right, what you saw probably wasn't an angel. But I do think you've seen one. I bet it just didn't have wings."

Dean swallowed, wondering how it was that this man, who really wasn't that much older than him, was suddenly getting to him, reading him, understanding what he needed to hear. He had the uncomfortable feeling of being pried open. "Yeah, I've seen those angels," he said, his voice shaking. "I've seen them taken, and abused. My mom, she was an angel. My brother. . ." he looked down suddenly, then away.

"Dean." Tyler slowly walked to him. "Has anyone ever sacrificed everything to save you? _Everything_?"

Dean's face worked, and he felt the tears sting. Damn him. Damn him! He was worn down. That what why this man was affecting him, he was worn down and scared and hurt. "You need to stop. Now." The threat was a meager one.

Tyler nodded. "And I bet you've saved people too."

"I said, stop." His quiet voice wavered.

"I bet you put your life on the line. You know what that means?" He was standing right over Dean, and he leaned down with all the majesty of Moses himself. "That means you're their angel. So tell me, Dean. What's the difference?"

And for some reason, some strange, stupid reason that he insisted to himself had nothing to do with the past few weeks and life and death and angels and resurrection. . .

Dean broke.


	11. Chapter 11

It was 4am when they left to rescue Sam.

How Sam had managed to get the Impala out of Bobby's yard without a sound worried Dean. And he was sure, damned sure, it was still in the yard when Sam took off. He'd checked, he made sure of it. But suddenly, no. It was gone.

So he rode with Bobby. The beat-up rusty car followed close behind the weather van. Dean winced and shifted in his seat. Felt like there was a spring going up his ass, and the dash looked ready to fall into his lap. The car shook like it would fly apart any minute, but it had speed. GOD he wanted his Impala. Hell, Bobby helped his dad with it, he was like the car's godfather or something. Why the hell didn't he pull one of the old classic from his pit and build it up? Then again, why go through the trouble when there were reliable snake skins lying about?

They hit a bump, and Dean groaned.

Bobby talked to Tyler through a small CB radio, offering a suggestion then listening to the man babble frantically about his 'damned-unusual' instrument readings as static chopped his sentences into fragments. Dean sat beside him diffidently, feeling half-drugged. His head throbbed. His ribs ached. The damn spring in the seat wasn't helping. Bobby had wrapped his wrist stiffly, swearing to the moon and back that once this was over, Dean was indeed going to get it check out, because the goose-egg on the top of his hand wasn't normal. It was fractured at the least, if not outright broken. Dean could remember what a broken wrist felt like, and this hurt much more. Probably one of those damned fractures that took ages to heal. He refused any painkillers other than aspirin, which was the next best thing to near useless. Bad enough he couldn't drive, he could hardly help as Bobby loaded the Winchester arsenal into the trunk alongside his own.

NATO would be so proud.

Bobby said little to him about the vis-a-vis with Sam. Dean didn't press. Bobby offered only one consolation, "We'll get him back," and dropped it. Dean wasn't sure if Bobby realized what he was saying, because for all Bobby knew, they just needed to perform an exorcism and free Sam from the demon's clutches. But Dean had a feeling this ran much, much deeper. This was freeing Sam from Sam's clutches.

Sam wasn't always the innocent kid. Dean could clearly remember his little brother running around barefoot, four years old, gleefully catching fireflies in the woods one evening while their dad worked on the car. He'd catch them in his hand, study them, let them go. He asked Dean what made them light up, and when Dean didn't answer, Sam caught one and pinched it tightly, wiping the phosphorous onto his fingertips and spreading his fingers out in the darkness. The look of wonder on his face was something that would stick with Dean for the rest of his life, that expression of accomplishment and amazement that he could ask a question, and find out the answer all on his own, no matter the consequences. But it was the first time he'd killed anything, and at that point Dean himself was just really beginning to see the lifestyle he would later embrace. What Dean saw that summer night from his little brother was not only a quest for knowledge, which filled his chubby face with delight, but the capability to kill in order to satisfy the need for an answer. There was no remorse in killing to satisfy his curiosity. Granted, it was only a bug.

But he'd seen it several times since then, that capacity to kill to obtain knowledge, or if knowledge wasn't forthcoming. It showed every time he confronted a demon. And once, it showed when he leered down at Dean.

He thought about the beating he had recently endured. It seemed Dean was a bug to be squashed for curiosity's sake. He wondered what Sam wanted to learn from it.

It was six am when they reached the area where Sam had attacked Dean and disappeared. The vehicles pulled to the side of the road. No Impala. Nevertheless, Dean silently led them to the spot where Sam had run off and left him holding his ribs, forcing his breath to exhale through blinding pain, calling after him desperately in a gravelly voice before falling unconscious. There was nothing to find, which didn't surprise the men.

They loaded up, and headed to Devils Tower.

Dean only had to ask once if Bobby was certain that Devils Tower was where they needed to go. The incredulous look he received in response made him blink and slowly melt into his seat.

He needed to learn how to do that. Bobby could probably send demons back to hell with a single glare. That could be their weapon, right there.

It was mid-morning when they arrived at the park, to blackened air. Storm clouds lay heavily overhead, threatening to drop a monsoon. Dean felt like he was trying to breathe soup.

Bobby's car skidded to a stop behind Tyler's van. Dean climbed out and followed Bobby to the van side door, which slid open and latched. Tyler sat back in his seat, studying his screen. "Useless," he muttered. "Too much atmospheric disturbance. Like rain fade."

"Ain't raining," Bobby said.

"I said it was _like_ rain fade. Didn't say that's what it is."

Let them debate the fine art of forecasting. His legs were stiff, ass was numb, and the only way he was going to stay conscious was to move. "I'm gonna go take a look around," Dean said.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Bobby replied.

"Yeah, well I didn't ask you." Dean leveled a gaze at his older friend. "Sam's out there, and I'm gonna find him."

"Dean, wait." Bobby caught his arm. "We don't know that for sure."

"Where else would he be? Huh? Vancouver?"

"I just don't think you should go out there alone! You're in no condition to. . ."

"Look, you two set up your magical light-up piano and start playing. I'll be back in an hour." Dean reached through the open window of Bobby's car and pulled out his handgun. He checked the chamber, then flipped the safety and tucked it into the back of his pants.

"I'll come with you."

"No."

Bobby was ready to argue. Dean could see it, but instead the older man winced. "You think you'll need that with him?"

"You think I wanna take the risk running into his friends unarmed?"

"Get the holy water."

"That I don't need."

"Dean..."

"I don't need it, Bobby. I'll be back in an hour." Dean looked at him pointedly, then at Tyler. Receiving no further argument from the men, he wandered into the dim line of trees.

So striking out on his own wasn't the best idea. But there were two good reasons he was doing it. One, he could let the smart guys figure out what to do about the demon pow-wow. He couldn't concentrate on that anyway. Two. . .he didn't want Bobby to see what Dean himself knew he was going to see.

The sky darkened above him as he pressed on.

*******************

His hour had long passed.

The clouds swirled menacingly above him, and at times Dean could swear it was a face, leering down at him before shifting and reforming into classic eddies of atmospheric disturbance. He was ready to aim high, and screw where the bullet landed.

He could sense his brother nearby. He didn't know how, and now wasn't a good time to wonder about it. He felt haunted. Not knowing where Sammy was, yet knowing he was there. Somewhere. Watching.

A knot formed in his gut. Lightning flashed sharply overhead, thunder slammed hard against the mountain. The tops of the trees whipped in a gale, then stilled once again. And still, no rain, though the air was thick. But he could feel it, god, it was unlike anything he'd ever felt. Heavy static in his heart. The air practically crackled.

Leaves crunched underneath a footstep. Dean spun, whipping his flashlight around, illuminating a face, scaring him. His breath caught.

Sam.

He looked huge, frightening, and stood as though he had been there for a while. His wild eyes reflected the glare of Dean's light. Just staring at him. Not blinking.

Dean swallowed thickly. "Sammy. Thank god."

"Why are you here, Dean." It wasn't a question. It was a soft demand.

"I was looking for you," Dean replied frankly. "You need to come back with me, Sam. Right now."

Sam's mouth quirked slightly. "Why?"

Why? Son of a bitch, why. . ."Because we need to talk. You need to tell me what's going on so we can end this." Dean took a step towards him, and froze as Sam simply said, "Stop."

They stared at each other for several minutes. Dean's jaw was killing him. He forced himself to unclench it and kept his light trained on his brother.

Sam finally moved, casually circling him, closing in. "You know what, Dean? You're here, I'm here, so you're right. We should stop this." He fumbled with the back of his shirt, adjusting it. He pulled out his gun.

Dean's hands instantly rose to the defense. "Okay, whoa. Wait a minute, Sam."

"You said you'd do it, Dean. You welched once before, remember?"

"Said I'd do. . ." Dean shrugged the rest of the question.

"You know." Sam flicked his wrist, waving the butt-end of the gun at Dean.

What was the hell was he talking about? When did he ever – oh.

The memory rushed back. Sam staring at him in the hotel room, begging Dean to shoot that was different, that was – "You were possessed, Sam. That was Meg, not you. Everything was okay, remember?" _I took care of you_.

"And this time there isn't a demon to get rid of. It's all me. How does that make you feel, huh? How does it feel to know that this is what I am." He waved the gun at Dean. "Here. Shoot me."

So damned casual. "No."

Sam waggled the gun. "Come on."

Dean blinked at it. "Are you nuts?" he asked cautiously.

Sam laughed. He laughed loudly, then practically doubled over, gasping for breath and confusing Dean more. When Sam finally straightened, his cheeks were streaked with desperate tears. "You promised me," he choked out. "Don't deny it. You fucking promised me that if I ever turned evil, you'd kill me." His voice grew rough with anger. "Dammit, you promised me!"

No, no, no, this wasn't happening – "No! Sam, you were dead. Okay? I brought you back! I didn't save you just so I'd have to kill you!" His voice broke, and he swallowed hard and fought for control. "I _saved_ you, Sam!"

"Saved me? You didn't save me!" Sam cried out. His arms flung to the side, the gun held loosely in his hand. "I don't even know what I am anymore, Dean! They say I'm one of them, and I know it, I can feel it in me! Part of me wants to just rip up this place and everyone in it! How is that a good thing? Huh?" He shook his head. "Why did you bring me back, Dean? Did you _want_ this to happen to me?"

"What? No!" Dean's voice sounded lost to his ears.

"Yes, you did!" Sam was broken, shaking with fear. "You're an ass, Dean Winchester! An arrogant, selfish ass!"

"Sam, please. I didn't want this for you, I just — I couldn't live with you dead. That's all."

"You knew this would happen to me. You didn't care."

"No, I didn't, I swear to god I didn't." Dean took a step closer, his eye on the gun that Sam was swinging around with reckless abandon. "Sam. Listen to me. They're in your head, that's all. That's all it is, you can't pay attention to them. You listen to me instead."

"Because you're my protector," Sam sneered.

"That's right."

"I've got demon blood in me, Dean. I'm like them."

The verbal blow made Dean freeze. His back tensed, his shoulders started to tremble. This was worse than a fucking nightmare. Seeing the anguish, hearing Sam's confession voiced in such a despairing tone that was foreign to him, was worse than anything he could imagine. It was something he never wanted to hear again, and that look in Sam's eyes he never wanted to see again. "What are you talking about?" he challenged in a low voice, because Sam was sick, he was delirious, he was wrong. _He was wrong_.

"The Demon. He gave me his blood. In the nursery, when I was a baby. Before Mom – ."

"No. NO!" Dean gritted his teeth. "You're not – they're lying to you, Sam. You know that. I told you, you can't. . ."

"He showed me, Dean! When I was in Cold Oak. He showed me what happened that night, detail for detail. I remember the shadows, the mobile turning above me, the lightning reflecting on the wall. How there was something in my room, someone standing over me. The scariest shadow. I had dreams about it, Dean. For years."

"I remember," Dean said softly. "I used to wake you out of them."

Sam's voice lowered to a near whisper, yet it carried over the storm like a bullhorn."God. It explains everything. The visions. How I don't have them now that he's gone. The reason I was targeted so much. Hell, I bet it even explains Dad's hatred towards me."

Dean was losing ground, and fast. He faltered. "Hate? No, Sam, listen to me. Dad never – he loved you. You know that."

"He said you'd have to kill me, Dean. He knew." Sorrowful eyes searched for his. "All this time – he knew about all of this."

Dean just shook his head, refusing to acknowledge it. Dammit! Refusing to believe it.

"He knew. He knew the time was coming, that's why he hunted so hard."

"To save you." Dean took a desperate step toward him. "Sam, listen to me, if he knew about this then he was trying to save you from it! It wasn't just about Mom. He wanted to end it, all of it! See? Come on man, he loved you, he was protecting you."

"You mean just like you do." Sam smiled. "Like you're still trying to do." His face worked, torn between keeping the smile, and releasing it into a pained grimace.

"Damn straight. I'm your brother, Sam."

"No!" Sam's hands flew to his head. "Don't say that! _They _say that to me, don't you dare say that!"

"They what, Sam? _They say what_?" Dean backtracked Sam's sentence, and realized what his brother meant. His eyes flew open in fear, and he dove forward, dropping his light. It rolled to reflect off a tree. Dean caught hold of Sam's arms, ignoring the gun still held in his brother's hand. He shook him, hard. "Sam! You listen to me. You listening? They are _nothing _to you. You got that? Nothing! You don't owe them anything!"

"The blood."

"It means nothing, Sam!"

Sam shoved him away. "Okay, I know that. I know that! God. . ." his hands flew back to his head. "I'm still killing. I killed a guy on the road. I killed two demons too – they say I'm a killer, that I'm a betrayer, they say – I'm meant to. . .god, even right now I look at you and it's all I can do not to – Dean, just – here." He passed over the gun without looking up.

"Sam."

"I tried to kill Bobby. I tried to kill you, and I would have, only. . ." he suddenly looked up and thrust the gun into Dean's hands, closing Dean's fingers around it. "Do it, please! Before I hurt someone else, before I can't control this thing any more. Do it. You promised me."

"No!"

"You promised!" he yelled, and took a step back, pounding his chest with an angry fist. "You don't get it! I don't want to live like this! I can't! I'm begging you, Dean, please end this. End it!" He screamed out, fisting his hair. "They're in my head, Dean, god, just end it! Now!"

Tears were streaming down Dean's cheeks. He couldn't. The gun weighed a ton in his hands. He wasn't going to shoot his little brother like putting down a horse. "I saved you, Sam," he pleaded. "Don't make me do this, I can't do this. I can save you again." His words became a litany, voiced over Sam's cries.

"No!" Sam cut him off. His face was terrifying, almost unrecognizable in the constant flare of lightning. "You can't save me. Not like this." He gave an eerie smile, and a laugh. His eyes lit up with a sudden realization. He blinked a few times, then smiled. "I'll be damned," he said in awe. "You can't save me, and I can't save you. But there is a good ending to this, Dean. It's in your hands."

"What is?" Dean practically whispered in fear.

Sam continued to chuckle in a light, yet delirious way. "I can't believe it. They told me, and they were right. They were right."

"Sam!"

"You remember when Bobby said there was always a third option? Every time I killed, they told me why I needed to do it. I mean, you're right. I can't save you, Dean. You can't save me. But this way," Sam's eyes glinted sharply in the night, ". . .I can see you in Hell."

He didn't just, that wasn't – at that moment, Dean's brain shut down."Oh, god," he whispered, his grip tightening on the gun, still hovering at his side. "God, Sam, no. No."

"_No_?" Sam yelled, taking a threatening step forward, and Dean aimed the gun before he realized what he was doing. "Did you think _no_ when you made that deal? Did you think that I would be happy, that I'd be able to just carry on?"

"Did you think_ I _could?" Dean asked shakily. "I did it for you, Sam."

"Don't lie to me!" Sam smirked, and crossed his arms. His brother was transforming right in front of him, giving in to the thoughts in his head. No, Sam would never give in. "You know better," Sam continued. "You did it for you. And you call _me_ selfish." He barked a laugh, shifting to stand sideways in a stance similar to a martial artist preparing to fight. Dean blinked rapidly and readjusted the grip on his gun. "So do it. Shoot me. I know you want to."

"Sam." Dean's voice was deep with anger and despair. "Listen to me. This isn't you. I know it, I know you. Okay? And this isn't it. Now maybe I was wrong to make that deal, and for that I'm sorry, I really am, but you got to believe me. You're Sam Winchester, you're my brother, and _nothing_ is going to change that. You hear me? Sammy?" He choked on the name, but he pressed on, smiling around the crack of desperation in his voice. "We've seen some strange shit, you know? You and me. Together. We've battled just about everything under the sun and above hell. Now, I swore I would protect you, and I couldn't. You swore you would save me, and you can't. So maybe this is the way. You're right. Maybe we should just go to hell together." And he slowly lowered the gun, then turned it butt-ended and held it out. "Maybe that's what we deserve for being devoted to each other. Maybe we deserve to rot in hell, together."

Dean stretched out his arm further, waiting for Sam to take the gun from him. "I'd said before that I'm tired, Sam, and that hasn't changed. This just keeps getting harder. So maybe we should just pack it in, huh?" He thrust the gun toward Sam. "Take the damn gun, will you?" But Sam looked at him, his expression dark. "Oh, come on," Dean sighed. "You couldn't kill Dad, now you really can't kill me? You've said you wanted to, now I'm giving you the chance! Hell, you've shot me twice before, or don't you remember that?" He flinched as Sam snatched the gun away and aimed it.

Dean nodded slowly and took one step back, spreading his arms. "See? That's more like it. Twice, Sam. One time the gun wasn't loaded, but one time it was. Besides, I'm guessing that by now, you're better at this than I am." He chuckled mirthlessly, and rubbed the back of his neck.

"I don't know, Sam, maybe you're right. Maybe you are dark." Dean's face tightened. "But I'm dark, too." And in the blink of an eye he whipped out his own gun and shot Sam in the shoulder.

Sam yelled out, dropping his weapon, folding in around the wound. He doubled over, then raised an enraged face to meet the barrel of a handgun just inches from his eyes.

"I think I just proved something, Sammy." Dean kept his grip on the gun firm. "You're no more evil than the rest of us. I think of killing, too. I dream of death. I hate, I loathe, I wish for bad things to happen. I'm selfish. I'm needy. So what makes you so special, huh? What makes you so much more evil than that? I'll tell you." He bent forward and curled his fingers around the back of Sam's neck, the gun still pointed at him, but less threatening. "It's not because of you. It's because this evil was _forced_ on you. You were abused. Your soul was fucking raped, Sam! _That_ is the evil, not you. That someone wanted this to happen to you, _that _is the evil. It isn't you."

He waited for one beat. And in that beat, he saw Sam. _His_ Sam.

Dean dropped his gun behind him and tilted Sam's face up to meet his, pulling him to a full standing position."God, it isn't you. Think about it. Think of Jess, think how much you loved her. Hell, think about me if you have to! You are not evil. You hear me?" His eyes bore into Sam's. "You are _not_ evil." _Come back to me_.

Sam's face was wracked with pain, and it wasn't apparent if the pain was from the wound in his shoulder, or his heart.

Dean's eyes stayed on his brother's face the whole time. He kept one steadying hand on the back of Sam's neck. When Sam fell to his knees, he fell with him. He caught his brother's uninjured shoulder and squeezed hard. "You want to know the main reason you're not evil?" he asked softly, tilting his head down to look at Sam's face. He waited until Sam's watery eyes met his and said firmly, "Because _I'm_ the big brother. And I say so."

Sam's face crumpled as he fought the emotions raging inside him. Dean let him, felt the tremors in his brother's body, and he held him tightly through every one. "_I'm scared_," Sam forced out in a whisper. "I don't know what's happening."

Dean squeezed his shoulder harder. "I'm right here, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere."

And his little brother's response, only one word, sliced right through him.

"Liar."

***********************

The voices in his head raged.

Sam felt Dean's arms around him as they knelt on the ground, strong and secure. Much more so than they had ever been, as though his pure grip could squeeze away the bad things.

Funny. He'd never thought of his brother as pure before. But it occurred to him that if ever there was a pure, authentic soul, it was Dean.

_You betray us. Again_.

No! Sam yelled within himself.

_Then you belong to us. You will lead us._

_Boy King._

Sam cried out and he plunged forward, and felt the grip holding him tighten, keeping him from hitting the ground. He looked up at his brother's face. The sky exploded in brilliant strips of lightning around Dean, freezing him in time, making him seem larger than life. Sam choked on a gasp, then collapsed against Dean's chest, sobbing in confusion.

It was a while before he could think. As he battled for control of his mind, Dean took the bandage from his damaged wrist and wrapped Sam's shoulder firmly. The thin, gauze-like material was stretched to the limit, offering minimal support against the bleeding, mainly acting as a buffer between the wound and grit. Sam's shirt was tugged back on quickly, but he barely noticed as coherency teased him in snatches.

Sam felt hazy, like he had been walking in a dream world, only he was aware of every vivid detail and smell. The brothers pushed onward toward the foot of the mountain as the dark sky ripped apart in anger above them. The pine straw made traction a near impossibility. Sam felt every jolt a fall gave him, but they couldn't stop. He had to tough it out, even though his vision swam before him. He gritted his teeth past the pain, past the voices that still urged him to attack. Attack, dammit! His brother was several yards ahead of him, looking over his shoulder and offering a hand when needed, backing off when told to. His soft commands pressed Sam on, forced him to continue, and even though his head told him to squeeze the life from the man in front of him, his heart remembered the quest to save him. Kill him. Save him. Save him by killing him? If Sam killed him, would he still go to hell? Dean's soul was sold either way. Good. No. Nononono. . . not good.

Sam growled loudly and gave his head a vicious shake, stopping to sit on the uneven ground Dean was at his side instantly, grabbing his arms, steadying him. "No. No, Sam. Come on man. We've gotta keep going."

"Nothing but voices. . ." Sam muttered, shoving Dean away. All words. All anyone had for him was words.

But his brother was like an annoying fly. "Look, you gotta stay focused. Just push it out of your head, okay? You're in control here. You got this." Dean's eyes burned into his with fierce determination. His jaw was set. It was an expression that Sam had always related to stone, right before it exploded under a mallet. Unbreakable, yet the concern made it fragile. When struck he would just break into hundreds of smaller hard bits, each one invincible in its own right. Each piece remembering where it came from.

Dean Winchester was a force of nature in himself. The realization pushed Sam to his feet, where he took his brother's offered hand until he felt steady.

Dean's phone sounded, the rock music muffled in his pocket. He pulled it out and flipped it open. "Yeah?" A pause, and Dean looked up. "Yeah, I think we're almost there, what do you see? Wait, wait, I can't hear you. Look, just stay there, we're coming." He slid the phone shut. "I think Bobby found them."

"The demons?" Sam asked, shakily.

"Something. Whatever it is, it ain't pretty." He pocketed the phone. "You ready for this?" The voice was soft.

"Are you?" Sam's voice was harder. It needed to be.

A smile lit Dean's face, and Sam blinked in astonishment. The smile grew into a full-on, dazzling, crazy grin, backlit by the storm. He held out his arms like a messiah welcoming his followers. "Dude. I'm always ready." Arms still out, palms up to the sky, Dean threw his head back and bellowed, "You got that, you sons of bitches? I'm always ready! _Bring it on!_"


	12. Chapter 12

For those that have the zine...yes, there are some differences here. Made a few minor adjustments to compensate for the evolution of the story. -K :)

*********************************

Dean could see Bobby crouching behind a large boulder that perched on the crest of a slope. Behind it, Devils Tower rose like a giant monolith, a dark shadow against the deep cloud cover that blotted out the stars. He was sitting to the side, leaning his head against the stone, using it as protection.

He tightened his arm around Sam and half pulled him to where Bobby was waiting. His shout was stifled by the wind, but it was enough to make the elder hunter turn and wave the young men down before sending a nervous glance around the boulder to the land below them.

The brothers joined him in a crouch, with Dean turning Sam so that he was leaning against the rock. "Leave it," he said, seeing Bobby go for his holy water. "Won't do any good. He's not possessed." He looked around. "Where's Tyler?"

"Went back to the van." He was eyeing Sam warily. "What happened?"

"Later." Sam's head lolled. Not good. "Hey. Hey!" Dean shook him, and kept a grip on his arm until Sam nodded. "We gonna sit here all day, or is there a plan?" he asked Bobby.

"Sure, there's a plan." Bobby shrugged, looking tense. "We send these things back to hell." He frowned at Dean's exasperated look. "What do you want from me, boy?"

"Let me go out there," Sam muttered, his head rolling against the stone. His voice sounded exhausted, but coherent. "They want me. They'll leave you guys alone."

Dean wiped his face. "Not really in the mood for movie cliches, buddy." In fact, he was wondering if they shouldn't just get the hell out of Dodge.

"I'm serious."

"No."

"Dean."

"Not an option, Sam!" Dean cut him off quickly, then turned as a heavy shadow emerged. "Tyler? Thought you went to the van for a time-out?"

"Damned creatures are headed right for it. But I managed to get this." He brandished his bible.

Dean's brows raised. "You gonna exorcize hell?"

"If plan A doesn't work."

"We've got a plan A?" Dean took his first slow peek over the boulder, and froze at the sight. Now he understood Bobby's nervousness.

Disembodied – things, mere shadows – played in the sparks of lightning-flecked sky. They wavered below them without really moving, moaned without really making a sound. It was more a sensation of activity; a heavy, suffocating darkness that pulled him in and made him feel like he was floating, then weighed on his chest like drowning. Their movement was muddied and sticky, yet beautiful, ethereal, mesmerizing. Like watching the train thundering toward you and being too shell-shocked to move. Dean discovered he was standing, fully visible to them, right as Bobby yanked him down. He nearly clipped his chin on the rock.

"Boy? You trying to get us killed?" he snarled.

"What the hell are those thing?"

"The damned," Bobby said, sullenly.

Dean planted his back against the boulder. "Are you insane? You wanna get after _those things _with a book? I don't think one bible's gonna do it, Tyler. Not unless you've got one heck of a sermon planned."

"What makes you think I don't have a sermon planned?" Tyler asked.

Dean stared."Please, God, _please_ tell me that's not plan A."

"You got a better idea?"

Dean's mouth worked, and he turned to Sam in disbelief. "Might wanna be awake for this, Sammy. Tyler here's gonna _save _hell." He shook his head. "This is a nightmare. No, this is _worse_ than a nightmare. That M. Night Shyamalan dude would be pissing his pants to get a piece of this." He risked another glance over the boulder. Not much was happening, just a lot of flapping around and wailing that would seem cartoonish if not for the feeling of death that settled over him. "I suppose the next thing is we'll go in there with a couple'a barrels of rock salt, a bucket of holy water and a Hail Mary. Ow! What the hell, Bobby?"

Bobby had thumped him upside his head. "Give us some credit, willya? And it's funny you should mention holy water. While you were out gallivanting in the woods, we made provisions." He peeked over the boulder. "We're about to go crop-dusting."

"What?" Dean's face crinkled in confusion, then soothed into astonishment. "Bobby, you son of a bitch!"

"Got a friend near here with a plane. Just need to keep our heads low and wait it out."

"Who blessed the water?"

Tyler raised his bible and waved it subtly.

"Don't get too excited," Bobby said. "We did it over the damn cell phone. No clue if it worked. Not to mention, he should've been here ten minutes ago."

The earth shook.

"We're running out of time," Dean muttered.

"Ya think? Wait, look. Is that it?"

Dean peeked over the boulder, and up. He stifled the urge to yell out, "De plane! De plane" as his manic mind tried to make light of a situation he had no control over. He felt Sam bump his leg, and crouched down.

"What's going on?" Sam's head fell towards Dean. His eyes were burning.

"Take it easy there, bro. Bobby's got a plan. And a plane."

"Oh, crap," Bobby muttered. "No, nonono. . ."

The engine was sputtering.

Dean stood again, his sight just clearing the huge rock. He glanced up.

The plane was frozen in midair. The engines tried to break free of an invisible force that held it tight. It gave a great shudder, then, as though a mighty arm was pitching for major league, the plane was flung to the side like a bullet. It sailed towards the mountain, two miles away, and splintered against the side before falling in faint white sheets to the ground.

Dean grabbed Bobby's arm. The man's face was white, his mouth open in disbelief, his eyes glued to the mountainside.

Then Sam cried out in surprise as he was bucked to his feet, and into the air.

"Sam?" Dean's fingers barely grazed the material of Sam's shirt as his brother was wrenched from him. With a pained cry, Sam's body scraped over the top of the boulder, and disappeared.

"Sam! NO!" Dean tore himself away from Bobby, ignoring his yell, and rounded the boulder to see Sam on his stomach, plunging backwards across the ground, down the small hill towards the ghouls. His hands clawed desperately at the soil as the same force that killed the plane, pulled at his ankles.

Dean ran and dove at him. He just managed to grab Sam's wrists. His breath was knocked free, and he fought to hold on as he was dragged over the ground with his brother.

"Dean!" Sam looked scared. Dammit, his brother looked like a terrified child, and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

Nothing was taking him. Dean swore it. He kicked out and managed to hook his boot on the base of a thick pine sapling, which jerked them to a temporary, precarious halt. His shoulders strained against the effort of Sam being pulled from him. His wrist was going to snap. His ankle cramped as the sapling bent forward. His lungs didn't want to cooperate.

"Don't let go!" Sam's grip was vise-like, and yet it was slipping. Dean tried to pull him back, tried to use his knees to brace himself against the earth so he could concentrate on tightening his hold. The grip slipped, and was lost.

Dean watched wide-eyed, frozen, as Sam skidded several meters away, rolling onto his back. He stopped.

In that moment, everything stopped.

_Everything._

A memory flashed in Dean's mind. Bobby's yard. He and Sam on the ground, looking up at a storm that stared back at them in the sudden silence.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears as the roar dulled. Then there was no wind, no thunder, no lightning. Nothing. Only his own harsh breathing.

He dared a glance back at Bobby and Tyler, and saw them frozen to the spot. Not moving. As though time itself had ceased.

Maybe it had.

Dean saw his brother roll back to his stomach, his fingers continuing to claw into the ground, but he made no move to rise. It was as though he were waiting, scared to stand, sensing something, like a shadow in a dream. The one that would make you run and run and never turn around. But out of morbid curiosity, you always turn, and dare to look, right before it pounces on you. Sam slowly looked over his shoulder, making Dean raise his gaze.

Two huge, violent eyes were peering back at them from the clouds.

It was the most terrifying, mesmerizing thing Dean had ever seen. He pushed clumsily to his feet, his eyes not leaving the huge glare above them. The rumble of thunder spoke, only he couldn't understand the words. Pressure found him, mashed against his chest and his shoulders, driving him back down to his knees. His jaw clenched, and he fought through the haze that started to cloud his mind. Desperately, he looked at Sam.

The lightning had deepened to a blood red. The sky spat at them in sharp flames, crackling around the head of the giant creature that leered out of the sky, down at Sam. His brother was just a short distance away, but Dean couldn't get to him. He looked tiny and insignificant, trapped within a demonic gaze.

Sam had flipped over onto his back, ready to scoot away. The creature's head dove towards him from the heavens, letting loose a deep, rumbling growl. A limb of cloud emerged, then grew, sprouting large toes. A huge misty paw fell on top of Sam, pinning him flat against the earth. The toes curled over his shoulders. The pad of the paw covered the rest of him.

Sam gasped out.

"Sam!" Dean struggled to rise, but only managed to arch his body to the side. "Let him go, you son of a bitch!" He grunted in frustration as the paw raised every so slightly, teasingly, then pressed down harder.

_No_. The response was calm, and simple, and voiced right in his head.

"Who are you?"

_I am the Alpha, and the Omega_, it said, and a huge head leaned in out of the clouds, miles wide yet completely visible. It had the fiery eyes of a dragon. Lightning-sharp teeth flickered in the vortex that was its mouth. It gaped at them, its maw stretching to devour them, to devour everything within miles. The mountain above them seemed fair game. But as threatening as it was, it held back.

Dean's chest tightened. That wasn't right. It was nowhere near right. The Alpha and the Omega?

The air was saturated with awful screeching, wailing, crying. Dean saw Sam crane his head around at the noise. His eyes were tight with pain. His arms were pinned beside his body. Dean could just see them, like looking at an object through water, or mist.

The pressure that held him eased, and he started for his brother, paused in uncertainty, then slowly crawled to Sam's side as the storm creature hovered over them, watching, but making no movement. "Sam!" he exclaimed, reaching his brother's side. "Sam, look at me." What the hell? _Be okay, be okay_.

"Dean?" Sam asked in a small voice. "I don't know what's going on." He looked confused, torn, angered and saddened at the same time. He winced as he tried to move.

"Are you hurt?" Dean felt like he was going to explode on the inside. Sam sounded so defeated. There was no telling what was going on in that head of his, and Dean could do nothing for him. He reached out and touched the large paw that held his brother down. It felt solid, yet he was able to push his fingers through with little trouble. He tried pressing his hands against it, but after a moment of resistance, they went right through. But Sam was breathing rapidly, trying to squirm away from an invisible weight. There was no way to move the paw, and Dean cursed loudly.

"I – I don't. . ." Sam winced, and tried to arch his back. "Ah – God!"

"What is it?" Dean quickly crossed behind Sam, and took his head in his hands. He looked up at the huge face that watched them closely. Why was it holding him? "What the hell do you want from him?"

_We are one. He must commit._

Sam choked.

"No, Sam! Hang on, man." Dean grabbed his brother's head, wiping the long hair back from his brow. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder at Bobby and Tyler, but they still seemed frozen.

Dean panicked. He was in this alone.

What would his dad do?

Give his life.

What would he himself do?

The same.

"Look, let him go. Take me. I'm doomed to hell, anyway, right?"

_You are not what I want._

"Dammit! I said, take me!" he raged.

_No._

Dean slumped. He kept one hand behind Sam's head, the other on his forehead. Shit, this wasn't good, this wasn't good, how the hell was he supposed to cope with this? Salt and holy water, a gun, chants, voodoo, hoodoo; that, he knew. This was some sort of metaphysical bullshit that would have Missouri soiling her pants. He looked around frantically, cradling Sam's head, protecting what he could. The next words chilled him.

_You will be hailed as the death-bringer_.

"No," Dean said, not even understanding what he was denying as his mind raced. The yellow-eyed demon had Sam. Cold Oak. Dean rescued Sam. When Sam had died – was that the plan? For him to die? But he wasn't going to hell when he died. He hadn't sold his soul. So why die?

No. This master plan was for Dean to bring him back. And he played right into it. And now he was leaving, and Sam would have to face his fate, alone.

Oh – _God_!

Sam moaned. Dean braced his brother's head, feeling vulnerable. His breath knifed through his chest as he stared angrily at the creature above them. Sam's head jerked, and his eyes rolled back.

Dean jostled him quickly. "Sam! No, dammit, you stay with me! You got that?"

_We will be whole._ _He will see to it._

"What the hell do you mean, whole? Just what the hell are you?"

_The end._

Ghoulish demons sailed around him, circling him in near-transparent veils cold as ice, sending a lifeless iciness through him unlike anything he had ever felt in his life. It was solid death.

Then everything snapped into sharp focus, and fractured. Sam gasped loudly for air as the paw dissipated.

"Sam!" Dean gasped, and quickly scooped Sam upright into his arms and held on tight, fumbling his way to his feet, dragging his brother back. A cacophony of noise deafened him and drove him back to his knees; the cries of demons, the yells of both Bobby and Tyler, freed from the grip as the beast, as they ran towards him. He heard own staggered breathing amplified, and the near-whimper of his brother as he fought whatever battle was going on in his head.

Hands grabbed them both, pulling them up, but Dean felt the grip on his arms immediately give again as both Tyler and Bobby were flung away, and he and Sam were slammed back to the packed earth.

The storm wasn't giving up that easy.

_This is my sign. With this, I will rent this world apart._

Sam cried out, clutching his head tightly.

Dean flung himself over Sam. He felt the tug of the storm suck at him, and he clung to his brother. This was it. They had been warned.

"I see it," Sam said in pained, yet quiet wonder. "It's. . ." his voice faded.

Dean closed his eyes tightly.

With howling winds, the demon storm lunged for them.

And a voice rose over the noise.

Dean and Sam looked up to see Tyler standing before them.

Peaceful.

Commanding.

"Tyler!" Dean shouted, and looked up to find the storm had paused. The damn thing was - hovering. "What the hell are you doing?"

Tyler didn't respond. Dean winced up at him in confusion, felt Sam shift beneath him, and forced him still. "No," he said.

"Dean, please!"

His voice was weak. "No way am I letting you go, so stop." Dean said quickly, and looked over at Bobby, his face pale, leaning back against a tree. He looked ready to run to them, but Dean wasn't convinced he could move. He felt a pressure mounting on him, saw the ghostly wisp descending from the sky. Waited to be crushed as the air slowly left his lungs.

Tyler crouched down before Dean and Sam, totally undisturbed. His hair was motionless in the gale.

Dean slowly raised his head. "Tyler," he whispered with what strength he had left, and couldn't even form the question that he knew sat in his eyes.

Tyler just gave a nod. "And evening having come, He said to them on that day . . ."

"Let us pass over to the other side. And when they had sent away the crowd, they took Him with them as He was in the boat. And there were also other little boats with Him. And there arose a windstorm, and the waves beat into the boat, so that it was now full. And He was in the stern of the boat, asleep on a headrest. And they awakened Him and said to Him, Master, do You not care that we perish? And He awakened and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, Peace! Be still! And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. And He said to them, Why are you so fearful? How is it that you have no faith?" His mouth quirked. "That's from the book of Mark, Dean. Read your bible."

"What's happening?" Dean asked softly, despite the gale. He knew Tyler would hear him. The man's eyes were so calm.

"You wanted to know where the angels were, Dean. Where the good is in all this. The good is all around you. And it works for you, if you know how to use it." And with this pronouncement, Tyler spread apart his arms, and stared at the storm head-on.

"Tyler, wait!" And if Dean hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he never would have believed it happened.

Tyler inhaled deeply and spoke in a language Dean had never heard, words that sounded like the deep toll of death bells. It was frightening, and powerful. His voice shook the ground. His body seemed to grow with righteousness, his arms outstretched and embracing everything around him. He was a messiah, he was a chosen one. He was an angel. He was a man.

He was only a man.

The wind ceased. The storm didn't move. The head bent forward. The red eyes flashed, and narrowed at them.

A brilliant sword speared downwards from the heaven above the dark clouds, stabbing the beast.

It leaned heavily over Tyler, over all of them, and it grew, widened, and screamed with a fury of thousands of years of torment. It was raw, trapped energy.

The earth split open beneath it. A bolt lashed out from the earth and wrapped around it, enclosing it in a brilliant golden chord, and dragged it down, sucking the dark clouds through the crust.

The ghouls screeched and flew over them, through them. Dean felt the icy chill of their touch, and fought to breath through the pain. He could feel small parts of himself being ripped away as they passed through, flaying bits of his soul, each one desperate for something real to cling to. Something to save them from their return to hell.

There was one more flash of red eyes, just above the ground, before it disappeared. And Dean knew that the storm had been beaten, but not defeated.

Dean felt Sam shudder through the tight grip. Slowly, they helped each other sit up.

The remaining clouds above them began to roll and rumble. White lightning flashed as the clouds slowly pulled apart, revealing bright pinpoints of light. The clouds retreated to leave a carpet of distant, sparkling diamonds overhead.

Dean idly wondered when he last saw the stars.

Bobby was stumbling towards them, shock visible on his face. "Holy son of a bitch! You guys okay?"

Dean looked at Sam, who reflected the same confusion Dean was certain colored his own face. He nodded slightly, unable to do more. His adrenaline faded, his many injuries took over, and he fought to hold on to consciousness.

And Tyler looked up from the ground where he'd fallen. He smiled lightly, muttered one sentence, "Damned heart. . ." and stopped breathing.

************************

"Dean. Dean!"

Dean felt hands on him, and slowly opened his eyes to see a mop of hair in his face, half shielding concerned eyes. "Sam?" he croaked.

"Hey! Stay with me, huh?"

He winced. "Funny, I should be saying that to you," he forced out through a groan. "Your shoulder, everything. . .shit, you okay?" He tried to sit up. "You okay?"

Sam was pressing him back. "You're a lousy shot. I'm okay. I think, I mean I feel okay."

He didn't sound okay, but then he was as tenacious as Dean when it came to hiding injuries. Dean was flat on his back. It was comfortable, as long as he made no effort to breathe. Every motion rocked his head, something he'd noticed for a while but had been able to ignore. Now? Not much need. He managed to shift his eyes to his left and saw Bobby, looking a hundred years older, hovering over Tyler, who was similarly stretched out.

"Bobby got him breathing again." Sam answered Dean's unasked question as he sluggishly pushed his hair back from his eyes. "Called for an ambulance. Hasn't left his side, just keeps talking to him and patting his chest."

"How is he?" Dean asked.

"Not good." Sam looked down at him. "How about you?"

Him? Oh, he just felt like he'd gone through a garbage disposal unit head first. He winced, and tried to remember how the hell he ended up on the ground. He'd meant to stand up. "What happened?"

"You collapsed. After – everything was over, you tried to get to your feet and go to Tyler, but you just fell out. Let's just say see you fall and not move was enough to snap me back."

Dean blinked up at him. "You sure you're okay? No more voices?"

"Nah. Hell of a headache though."

He could relate. But something was wrong. It was in Sam's voice. The pain. The guilt over what he'd done to Dean, to Dale, to Bobby, to the man in the mine. Guilt and torment, and Dean had a feeling that once they were back at Bobby's they were in for a long discussion. "I feel like shit," he admitted to his brother.

"You look like the shit that shits shit out."

"Jackass." He gave Sam's arm a pat. Sam curled up, pulling his knees to his chest. Long arms wrapped around them. He was trying to be casual, but Dean was no idiot. He was hurting.

"Sam?"

"Hm?"

"What happened? With Tyler."

The corner of Sam's mouth quirked. "Do you believe in divine intervention?"

"Please," Dean snorted painfully.

The sky had cleared above them, but was now darkening again. Lightning flashed, but Dean realized this time it was different, a more steady rhythm. The wind howled like a siren, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. He heard a voice, felt himself being jostled, and knew the storm was coming for them again. No, not again, but the lightning was red. . .why was the wind so loud, no, wait, it was gone. No noise, but a steady beat of red lightning that slapped at the trees above him. Other voices floated over him...demon voices? They were coming for them. He tried to push them away, fought the hands that grabbed him, telling him to calm down, that help was here. Voices yelling out to load someone, something about cardiac arrest, then yelling that another one was down, and he had an awful feeling they were talking about Sam. Chaos reigned in a different form, no longer a demonic presence but the frantic cluster of people trying to save lives. Not take them. Dean was loaded into the ambulance as another pulled up, and his vision faded.


	13. Chapter 13

"You feeling better?" Bobby asked.

Sam had plodded into Bobby's kitchen. His limbs were weary, his head and shoulder were both aching, and the only thing he could think about was the sweet heat of coffee going down his throat and getting back to the hospital to see Dean. Dean had sent him away the night before, saying he was worse than a wasp on crack and would he please just give him some space? So, Sam got angry, and left. Which was the worse thing to do to someone in the hospital who just happened to save his ass.

Again.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah. You look it." Bobby didn't sound convinced. He passed Sam a clean mug and nodded toward the steaming coffee pot.

"What about you?" Sam asked as he slowly filled his mug. "You sleep any?"

"Like a baby."

"You did not."

"Sure I did. At about five am."

"Which means you got about," he glanced at his watch, "two hours of sleep."

"And I slept those two hours just like a baby."

Whatever. "Any word on Tyler?"

"No change, far as I know."

Sam nodded, blew over the rim, and sipped his brew.

They were lucky. Bobby came out on top as he always seemed to. Sam was waiting for the day when the man would get knocked flat on his ass and not get up. Not that he was wanting it, but the odds were quickly reaching the point where it had to happen at some point. Bobby wasn't invincible.

Sam had been in the hospital for a full day after the showdown at Devils Tower. Exhaustion was batted around as being the main cause for admittance. Blood loss from the almost-gunshot wound that he had taken to his shoulder hadn't been enough to keep him down. (Which he would have to tease Dean about, because seriously, while it hurt at the time it was barely a graze and a bandage patched it right up.) He was kept for observation only, then released. His shoulder was sore, and he tried not to move his arm too much.

Of course he couldn't tell the doctor that he'd had a demonic spirit talking in his brain. Or that was making him do nasty things to people. Or that he was half evil, that he had tried to kill those around him and could only blame himself for that, and that for some reason the same people he tried to kill risked their lives to save him. He couldn't tell the doc those things. But he had a feeling it counted towards the exhaustion he felt.

Dean fell unconscious right as the ambulance arrived, and slept for two days, his brief periods of waking muddled. Once he called Sam "Dad", which tore at his heart. A few cracked ribs, deep cuts, extensive bruising, broken wrist, repeated head trauma, it was more than Sam ever cared to see on his brother. He had been roughly and throughly beaten and abused, and Sam could remember every motion, every second of it. That was just his part in the whole game. Never mind Dean taking on those demons before Sam tried to go psycho on his ass. It nauseated him.

Guilt put Sam at Dean's side. Panic kept him there.

When those green-gold eyes finally opened and cleared, they found Sam instantly. Sam watched as the familiar gaze fixed on his. He swallowed hard, not sure if Dean would remember what had happened. Not sure if Dean would trust him, or make a head-dive for the window. One day he'd learn to have more faith in his brother. Dean just smiled slightly, and his brow soothed as he relaxed into a regular sleep. It was all the confirmation Sam needed to say things were okay between them, and he released his breath.

After this all-too-brief waking, Sam pulled his chair close to the bed and folded his arms on the mattress. Bobby found him dozing there.

Tyler was another story. He had suffered another massive heart attack. He was alive, thankfully, but the damage was extensive. Sam knew Bobby checked on him constantly, either by visits or the telephone, claiming that he was Tyler's older brother, and his only family. Sam had a feeling that after this episode, the bond between the two of them would be real.

A young black lady made a brief appearance once while Sam was in Tyler's room. She had said little, and squeezed Tyler's arm affectionately. "Old buzzard," she muttered, shaking her head. "Ain't that much older than me, really. Scares the shit out of me." And she gave Sam a frank look, and walked out. It was the only time he'd seen her, and he assumed it was Tyler's other office colleague.

Sam set down his coffee mug. "When you going out there?" he asked Bobby as his thoughts returned to the present.

"Dunno. Still got some cleanup to do around here."

Sam frowned. Bobby was wearing down. Sure, he'd come out with hardly a scratch, unless he was counting the wounds that Sam inflicted upon him. Which looked a lot better. But he seemed tired. Hell, in addition to everything that had happened, he'd gone Impala hunting. Found it abandoned on the side of the road five miles from Devils Tower, half driven into the bush. "Why don't you get some rest? I'll look in on Tyler when I go see Dean."

"Didn't I just say there's cleanup to do around here?"

"So I'll do it when I get back! No reason for you to bust your ass and end up in the hospital too!"

"Now look here. . ."

"Bobby." Sam's tone was firm.

Bobby sighed and braced himself on the counter and lowered his head, exhaling sharply through his nose.

Sam reached out, scared for a moment that the older man would collapse in the middle of his kitchen floor. "Bobby, what is it?"

"It's nothing."

"Don't give me that."

Bobby raised his head. His eyes were unreadable, then turned hot. "What the hell happened to you out there, Sam?"

He'd been waiting for the question. Still, Sam felt boneless. His tall frame slumped. "I don't know," he said simply.

"Were you possessed?"

God, if only.

Bobby sighed and pushed away from the counter. He took two steps and stopped in Sam's space. "How the hell can we help you if you don't tell us what happened to you?"

How the hell could he help, anyway? And that wasn't the point. "I don't need help."

"Dammit, Sam!"

"I don't! Dean's the one who needs help! There were all those demons there, and none of them knew. . ." he turned away. "I couldn't do it." He heard the defeat in his voice, but it was nothing compared to the despair he felt in his heart. He was right there. _Right there_. Those demons were all around him, and the Dealmaker was one of them. He spoke to it. He remembered. And there was nothing that could be done. His breath caught painfully as the words sliced into him. There was nothing to be done? "I couldn't find the crossroads demon," he gasped in a panic, not sure why he was lying. "Bobby, I couldn't do it, I couldn't save Dean." He turned away.

"We have time. This thing's just started."

Sam swallowed hard.

"Hey."

Sam glanced over his shoulder.

Bobby was looking at him with soft eyes. "We'll take care of Dean. You know that. But we have to take care of you, too. Otherwise it's all for nothing. Now, I know you can be just as much a stubborn ass as your brother. Got a hard head just like your daddy. You know, he'd of come out of this whole thing a hell of a lot better if he'd let someone help him from time to time." Bobby looked at him pointedly. "Don't repeat his mistake."

Sam nodded slowly. "I'm fine, really," he insisted in a low voice.

This time Bobby slumped. "Great," he mocked. "Fine. I think I _am_ gonna lay down. Didn't exactly sleep last night."

"You do that. I'll tell Tyler you asked about him."

"If he can hear you. Go for it. Call me if anything changes. I'll have my phone on the table."

"Bobby." Sam stopped him with one word, but the rest were stuck. What could he say_? I'm sorry I threatened to kill you. You're becoming like a father to me, and I tried to kill you. I used you_, _and I'm so, so sorry_." The words wouldn't come, no matter how many times he opened his mouth.

Bobby just nodded. So he understood. He didn't like it, but he understood. That was obvious.

Sam walked outside and looked at the Impala for a moment before climbing in. Part of him wanted desperately to just pick a random direction and drive away.

He headed for the hospital.

****

"Oh, it's you." Dean shifted and lay his head back on his pillow.

"Wow. Glad to see you, too. Guess I'll keep this, then" Sam plopped a paper bag on the silver tray that held Dean's untouched lunch. "How you feeling?"

"Like someone tried to saw my head in half and put you in it."

"That should improve things for you."

"Whatever. What'd you bring me?" Dean grumpily snatched the bag from the tray. It crinkled loudly. Brows raised in surprise. "Are you serious?"

"They said you were probably getting out of here today, so I thought. . ."

"You're rapidly making my 'good' list." His mood considerably lightened, Dean pulled out a wrapped cheeseburger. "Sure as hell makes up for the nurse."

Brows drew together in puzzlement over Sam's grin. "What's wrong with the nurse?"

"It's a freakin' conspiracy, that's what's wrong," Dean groused, unwrapping the burger. "You'd think with all the crap I've been through these past few weeks I'd at least hook up with a hot chick in a nurse's outfit. Murphy's fucking law in action." He bit in, and his eyes closed slowly in bliss as he started to chew.

"She too old?"

Dean stopped chewing and looked at him.

"Oh. _OH!" _Sam chuckled and swung his gaze to the door.

Dean crinkled the wrapper further down around the burger. "Of all the hospital rooms in all the world, the freakin' dude has to end up in mine," he muttered around his mouthful.

"There's a lot of male nurses, Dean."

"Never say that to me again, Sam. I've been traumatized enough."

Sam grinned and sat in the chair he'd pulled close to the bed. He studied Dean's face closely. Bruises darkened the skin underneath his eyes. His cheekbone was colored, but fading. Cuts littered his lips, each one the result of a punch. Though he was trying to hide it, it was obvious that chewing was a chore. Sam knew that dark bruises covered Dean's body from head to toe.

Coming up with a story to fit their conditions had been an adventure and a half, one he never cared to repeat. How was he supposed to explain a gunshot wound (barely), Dean's battered condition, and Tyler's heart attack? Incredibly bad luck? They settled on a story of being attacked, and in the dimness of light were unable to identify their attackers. It was fanciful at best, but it was better than saying they had unleashed the demons of hell to walk the earth, and oh yeah, one of them had manifested itself into a uber-storm that was bent on tearing up the world. Because that happened every day.

Dean punched the television remote with a loud click. The dark screen slowly faded, displaying The Weather Channel. Jazz music played a tune that Sam would always associate with the "current weather conditions". For the most part, he liked jazz. He didn't like jazz on The Weather Channel.

Dean muted the sound. "I was wondering if there's more storms around."

"Not like before, but still a lot of 'em."

Dean nodded slowly, eyes on the screen. "So what we did out there, it didn't really do anything?"

Sam shrugged. "Like I said. Aren't as many."

"What about the demon activity?"

"Decreasing. So that's something, anyway."

"Neh. They've just gone into hiding. Building up for something big." Dean wiped his hand over his face. He looked drawn and tight. "Well, we got you back, anyway." He dropped his half-eaten burger onto the tray.

The action bothered Sam. Dean never let good food go to waste. "I never left, Dean."

"Dude, you were _so _gone. . ."

"No." Sam shook his head firmly. "I wasn't. I remember all of it. It was me." He lowered his gaze for a second, then met his brother's eyes.

"You said you heard voices in your head."

Sam raised his brows. "I wasn't possessed," he said, pointedly. Wanting Dean to understand.

Dean licked his lips, but said nothing.

He looked so tired. He hadn't looked so tired since the time he was electrocuted and nearly died. Or the time — well, that wasn't the same kind of tired. Dean was holding on to fear when he brought Sam back. That fear and sadness and despair had sickened him. Made him go do something stupid.

But those eyes were looking at him, and tired as they were, there was something burning inside them. The fire within was the one thing that kept Sam coming back every time he wanted to run away. That fire was made of pure devotion, to him, and who on earth didn't want that?

Dean's attention returned to the small television mounted to the upper corner of the room. "Yep. There they are. Storms all over the place."

"And still no rain," Sam added.

Dean nodded. "Any more news on Tyler?"

"No. Nothing."

"I think I had a dream with him in it. He was telling me something about rainbows, and I told him to stick it up his ass."

Sam smiled. "Dean!"

"Well, he was all sunshine and annoying as crap. Hey! It was a dream, I can't control my dreams!"

"Nice to know that your inner Dean is consistent," Sam said.

"I yam what I yam," Dean said, and turned off the tv with a sigh. "Just tell me this. When am I getting out of here?"

"One more checkup from the doc and you should be in the all clear."

"Bout damn time. That nurse keeps looking at me."

"You mean, the male one."

"Bitch."

"So? Look back."

"So? Shut your face!"

Fortunately, that was when the doctor walked in.

****

"I said, I got it." Dean pushed at Sam and braced himself on the car. He winced in the glare of sunlight. It had been so long, he'd forgotten how bright the sun was. It warmed his back, warmed the top of the Impala that Sam had insisted on driving, damn him, and made his mood dark. He was too irritable for a sunny day.

"Geez, just trying to help." Sam backed off, his hands in the air. Dean grunted and shuffled into Bobby's house, only to find the sofa equipped with a blanket and pillow.

He stopped in his tracks. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Nervous exhaustion," Bobby said, coming around the corner, "multiple concussions, two cracked ribs, and a broken wrist."

Dean frowned at his half cast. He'd never had a cast in his life. It was strange, considering how many times he'd been hurt, but that was usually the threat of being torn open and his intestines used to decorate the nearest tree. Never actually broken anything, not to the degree that he needed a fucking cast. It sure didn't help his mood. Hell, the pillow was even lumpy.

"Can I get you anything?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Cable tv."

"Here?" Bobby asked incredulously.

"This is hell," Dean moaned, and shifted so that he could bury his face in his pillow.

"The only way you were let out was with a guarantee that you'd take it easy for a few more days."

"Yeah! Take it easy! Not get laid up!"

"Christ, it's just if you get tired, Dean!" Bobby sighed. "No one said you had to stay there all day. It's called convenience and someone giving a damn!" His voice raised.

Dean had the grace to look sheepish. He could feel his face flame, and hoped he wasn't turning red.

Sam raised his brows, obviously sensing his brother's discomfort and feeling the need for a diversion. "Any chance that barbeque place is still open, Bobby?"

"Sure is." Bobby nodded. He looked at Sam, then Dean. "I guess I should get us some, huh?"

"Thanks, Bobby."

"Don't mention it," Bobby grumbled, fishing for his wallet as he walked towards the door.

Sam grinned at his retreating back, then turned to Dean. Tucked his hands in his pocket. Looked uncomfortable.

Dean groaned. He knew it, he knew it was coming. "Oh, man, this is the heart to heart, isn't it? The part where you ask if I'm really okay and I say fine, and I ask you if you're really okay and you say fine, and after an hour we come together in mutual agreement that this conversation is officially going nowhere. May as well skip it. Or better yet," he pointed to himself, "I'm fine." He gestured to Sam. "Your turn. Cliff notes version."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered.

It threw Dean off guard. For a moment, he actually lost his composure. "For what?" He realized his voice sounded gruffer than it should.

Sam sighed, and Dean knew then that he was in for the long haul. So much for resting. He said nothing as Sam paced, then sat on the sofa beside Dean, who had to pull himself upright to make room.

"I'm sorry I pulled you into this mess. I'm sorry I couldn't control myself. I'm sorry for. . ." he let his eyes roam Dean's body, then smiled self-consciously and shook his head in consternation. "I'm sorry about the demon," he finally whispered.

"Whoa, wait, first off you didn't pull me into anything. Last I checked, I'm a free agent who gets off on danger. And second, I'm not sorry you didn't find that red-eyed bitch." Dean schooled his face against Sam's shocked expression. "I'm not sorry at all. You know why? It won't happen. This deal is done, and I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I'd rather die."

"You realize that's exactly what you're going to do."

"Yep. I'm okay with that."

"Huh. Yeah." Sam smiled again, this time in disbelief, and rubbed his face. "Selfish bastard."

"Wuss."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam blinked rapidly, and stood, facing away from his brother. "The voices," he said. "I still hear them, Dean. How am I supposed to deal with this if you're gone?"

"I thought you said you weren't hearing them?"

"Yeah, well," he gave a half-laugh and a sheepish shrug. "They're back." Studied his hands.

Shit. Dean leaned into him. "Okay. Look. We're going to fix this before I check outta here. All of it. You'll get a law degree and a little white house with a picket fence and two point five annoying children and you better name your son after me or I'll climb out of hell and kick your ass."

"Who am I supposed to have these children with, Dean?"

"Your choice. What hot chick won't fall for a lawyer?"

"I'd give it all up to keep you here. You know that, right?" He turned, looking Dean square on.

Dean's mouth worked. He wanted to come back with a retort. He wanted to blow it off, but Sammy looked so sincere. So damned truthful. So annoying.

But in that moment, Dean believed in angels.

The wind picked up, slamming a shutter against the window.

Dean sighed. "Not again!"

Even Sam looked worried. "Can't be. We — it can't be." They stood, with Sam guiding Dean in front of him, and went outside.

The skies overhead were grey. Gunmetal grey. Moisture was thick in the air. "Oh, come on, please tell me we're done with this!" Dean yelled out over the wind.

Sam scanned upwards. "No, wait. I think it's okay."

"Okay? What, like you were okay back there? I can't trust you when you say 'okay', Sam!"

Sam dropped his eyes toward his brother. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about hiding your crap from me! I ask, you say okay, and what does that prove, huh? That you're some tough bastard ready to take the world on your shoulders with no help? Why didn't you tell me about the voices _before_, Sam?"

"Look, I told you everything as it happened!"

"Yeah? I don't believe you!"

"And I don't believe you!" Sam yelled back. "It goes both ways, Dean! You don't tell me when you're hurting, or scared! You won't talk about any of this! Why?"

"Because it's none of your business!"

Sam hurled himself forward to stand toe-to toe. "YOU are my business, Dean! When are you going to get that through your thick skull, huh? When are you gonna let someone care for YOU for a change?"

"When I deserve it!" Dean yelled back, slinging his good fist towards Sam in anger, with no intention of hitting him. "Now get your ass inside!"

"No!"

Dean's brows raised. "Excuse me?"

"I said no! Dammit, we're going to talk, and we're going to talk right now!"

Dean glanced at the heavy skies. "Are you serious?" he yelled.

"Right now, Dean!"

"There's nothing to talk about!" A rough gust forced him to take a step back away from Sam, as if another force were protecting him.

"Yes, there is." Sam's voice was low, and still it carried over the wind. "You remember when I said you had to watch out for me?"

"So help me, Sam, if you bring that up _one _more time. . ."

"You did."

Okay, unexpected. Dean blinked. "What?"

"You watched out for me. You — you did good."

Dean's mouth opened. He gave up, and closed it. His little brother was praising him? Commending his performance? "You realize if you keep talking like that, hell will freeze over and we'll be out of a job."

"Suits me." Sam smiled.

Dean rolled his eyes and wrapped his arm around sore ribs. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"

"I have a good role model."

"Damn straight."

"So we're good?"

Dean felt a smile creep over his lips. "We're always good, Sammy. You know that. Asshole. Trying to start something out of nothing." He made a big show of shaking his head and walking to the house, but the truth was, he felt lighter than he had in weeks.

They had won. This time.

"I still feel it, you know."

Dean stopped. He didn't turn, because he didn't really want to know. "Feel what?"

A pause. "_It_." Said with all the emphasis of a drowning man.

No, he really didn't want to know. His gaze cast back towards his brother. "Is it bad?"

Sam shrugged. "I can get around it."

Sure. "Maybe Bobby will know something that'll help."

"Maybe." He sounded doubtful.

The sky above them looked like it was about to split open, nature battling to take its regular course. Dean took Sam by the arm. "Inside," he said, and guided his brother to the porch.

**********************

The Impala was packed and ready to go. Dean leaned against it, watching Sam and Bobby talking on the porch. They had planned to head out much earlier, but Bobby had received a call that Tyler was awake, and asking for him. The three men headed to the hospital. Sam and Dean made a brief visit before bowing out to give Bobby and Tyler some time to talk things out. Then there was packing to be done, which took all of three minutes and consisted of cramming clothes into duffels. More time was spent making sure the repairs on the property would hold out, that Bobby was good to be back on his own. Not that he wasn't totally self-sufficient, but Dean wanted to be sure they left him in a good place. His affection for the man was growing by leaps and bounds, and he could honestly say that he loved the old coot.

But this, what was going on before his eyes at that moment, was puzzling him. Bobby and Sam had shared no less than five brief conversations that day, all private. They weren't hiding in corners, but the hushed tones would cease when Dean came near. He knew Sam was talking to Bobby about Dean's situation, and that Dean wouldn't want to be a part of it. So there they were, talking, and slowly walking towards him and the car.

Oddly enough, Dean wasn't exactly itching to go. It had been nice having a home base.

The pair joined up with him, each scuffing their shoes in the dirt. They looked at each other. There was a silent exchange between them.

"Where you headed?" Bobby finally asked.

Dean shrugged. "Gonna check out a few of these storms, I guess. See what's up. Hoping these demons went back underground. Doubt it, though."

"Demonic activity _is_ still decreasing," Sam added. "Plenty of storms, but nothing going on yet."

"Looks like Tyler scared the shit out of them," Dean grinned.

"Tyler scared the shit out of me," Bobby said pleasantly. "By the way, he wanted me to tell you boys to 'keep the faith'. That it can work wonders if you let it."

"I still want to know what the hell he did out there."

"_I_ want to know what the hell he did. He ain't talking. I'm not sure he even knows."

"Nah, that dude knows more than he's letting on," Dean muttered. "If that's faith, it's freaky as hell."

"And that's because you know how freaky hell is," Bobby countered, and extended his hand for Dean to shake. "You boys don't be a stranger, and do go out too far. Don't think this is over. I may need you back here real quick if this suddenly goes south. And if you need me. . ."

"We'll call." Sam shook Bobby's hand. "Give Tyler our best, will ya?"

"Sure. He wants to see you boys again." Bobby shook his head and scratched the back of his neck. "Just my luck. Now I can't get rid of the jackass."

"Hey, that's your fault. You didn't have to hover over him."

"I wasn't hovering. I was curious." Bobby stuck his hands in his pockets and backed up, then started. "Oh! Dean. Almost forgot." He pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "He wanted me to give this to you."

Dean felt his brow pucker. "Thanks,"he said, taking the paper. He didn't open it.

The wind continued to howl. Bobby looked up, then startled and blinked in astonishment. He slowly wiped at his eye, and looked at his fingers. "Well. I'll be damned."

Sam grinned all over. "Guess we better get going, or we'll be stuck here. You better get inside."

Dean was already hitching his jacket over his head. "And we need to talk about getting some sod for this mudhole of yours! See ya, Bobby!"

"You boys take care!" Bobby called out, quickly heading for his house. Too bad the wind hadn't tried to level it. Still looked like it leaned to the left a bit.

Sam took the wheel. Dean groused and slid into the passenger's seat. "I can drive, you know."

"I know. I just want to."

"Control freak."

Sam said nothing, just cranked. "So, where to?"

Dean thought about it. They could check out the storms. But, if nothing was really going on, there was no reason to follow them. He fingered the rim of his cast. It was going to drive him crazy. He didn't see it staying on longer than a week. Hell, he could just splint his wrist. "For now? I want to forget about all this. Time to have a little fun."

Sam frowned. "Dean?"

"I mean it, Sam. I'm sick of all this. Time for a break. Good food, good company, hey, maybe we can find a decent set of twins, whaddya say? Huh?" He glanced back to the fence that barred Bobby's property from the hills beyond. To the hills he had fled to when he was so desperate for freedom.

"You want to have fun."

"You're such a stick in the mud, Sam. Or you will be if you don't get this thing cranked and get us out of here."

Sam nodded. Dean noticed he looked at the hills, too. Probably mirroring Dean's thoughts. "We still have time," he said quietly. "I'm still gonna get you out of this, Dean. You've just gotta have faith."

"Man, that word 'faith' is gonna haunt me for the rest of my life, I swear it is." Dean jabbed his finger forward. "Make it so, ensign."

They blew out in a cloud of dust that was instantly beat down as the rain started to fall in a deluge.

*******************************

_Dean,_

_I told Bobby to give you this little note. I have something to tell you, something I didn't want to say in front of Bobby or your brother. It's very short, but I think you need to hear it._

_No matter what you do, no matter what you're up against, you're not alone. No matter how bad it gets, you're not alone. No matter how dark the situation, how stormy, or how frightening. . . _

_you're not alone._

_Even when your time comes._

_You're not alone._

_Tyler_

_*******************************_

Thank you SO MUCH for reading! To be continued in Chaos: Revelations.

-Kam :)


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